


Heliophilia

by unwinding_fantasy



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Romance, Blood and Violence, Boys Kissing, Canon Compliant, Canon Disabled Character, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Past Promptis, Psychological Torture, Romance, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Starvation, Torture, World of Ruin, ambiguous ignoct, okay that's all the nasty stuff, the saddest sex scene in the universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 11:19:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12364623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unwinding_fantasy/pseuds/unwinding_fantasy
Summary: Noct gets swallowed by the Crystal and nobody knows whether he's alive or dead. In the aftermath of losing the guy who meant everything to them, Prompto and Ignis find each other. [Mostly canon-compliant.]





	1. Athazagoraphobia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Asidian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/gifts).



> So first off the bat: this is a pretty heavy story. If you're not good with violence but you're here for the Promnis, skip the first chapter. All the nasty torture stuff is contained in the first chapter so you're safe after that.
> 
> The prompt: "After being kidnapped and tortured, Prompto is in rough shape. He's been gone for at least a few weeks and has been seriously hurt and not properly fed during that time. The bros come and break him out and do their best to nurse him back to health. The kidnappers broke his hands, and there are either no curatives or the curatives aren't working, so one of the bros has to hand-feed him. Lots of hurt/comfort and nice things for poor Prom." 
> 
> Asidian, I tried my best but the story ran away from me, so I'm really sorry if I've missed the mark! Please let me know if it's rubbish and I'll write you something else. XD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto's imprisoned in Gralea. There are no bugs at least, but there is Ardyn, and that turns out to be a thousand times worse.

At first they don't even do anything. Prompto's left trembling and aching in a lightless cell, brain muddled like he’s been hit with a whiff of necromancer toxin. His breaths cut the otherwise still air while he sits cross-legged and gingerly probes the lump above his right temple. The rest of him though is remarkably unhurt. _Guess I didn’t put up much of a fight, huh._ Shame creeps in but he pushes through because self-pity’s an indulgence he can’t afford.

It’s hard going, trying to recall: the memories ghost in then swirl out of reach. Concussion, he surmises, wincing as he presses a little too vigorously but the diagnosis is as pointless as giving breath mints to a malboro. His crash course in Crownsguard-ing hadn’t covered “getting shoved off a train by your best friend slash liege slash guy you fooled around with in high school”. He frowns and pushes aside the unpleasant thought but other images flash through his mind: the burn of a taser; the way metal cuffs bite into his wrists; the stench of oil and industry and something indefinably foul as he’s dragged into an MT carrier. Not long after he’d left Aranaea, they’d taken him, capitalising on how he’d been the kind of tired you got after tangling with a high end mark. He’d been sloppy. Picked the wrong camp site, probably, but there hadn’t been a haven in sight and he’d been so damn tired. Was it a blessing that the Niffs had found him rather than some daemons? Maybe. Whatever the case, Prompto feels stupid now, believing any of his friends would’ve pushed on rather than leave themselves exposed. He winces at his carelessness.

The four of them had been working together so fluidly that Prompto had forgotten how useless he was on his own. Now the truth’s hammering home, keeping time with the pulsing of his head, and for a split second Prompto hopes his friends will give up the search – if they even _are_ searching – because if he was dead weight before, what does that make him now?

The moment passes. Prompto’s survival instincts flare.

His jacket’s gone though he’s still got his regular clothes, suitable for a Leide desert but not a Gralean prison. But his gun. His gun’s here too, holstered securely since he’d decided it was probably best not to store it in the Armiger after Noct…

Prompto shakes the memory off. He has a weapon and… _a_ bullet. It winks merrily at him from the centre of his icy palm. Well, better than nothing. Cheered a little, Prompto pats its sleek form. Now, if only there was some asshole to use it on.

The blackened world tilts dangerously when he stands and sags against the nearest wall, coaxing his fluttering heart to calm. The metal sends a cold chill lancing down his spine but Prompto just grits his teeth and edges along the perimeter, ignoring when his foot connects with something that clangs – a bedpan, he thinks. Even at this sluggish pace it takes hardly half a minute to complete a circuit. Realising exactly how close these quarters are, Prompto’s heart starts hammering anew.

 _Calm down, King Claustrophobia, nothing wrong with some cosy quarters. It’s just like being in the tent but with actual breathing room. Oh, and without Gladio’s snoring. Winning!_ Talking to himself in a forced chipper voice isn’t really helping though so Prompto wonders what Ignis would do. The Ignis of before, that is. The Ignis of now is eternally in darkness. Prompto grimaces. _D minus on the pep talk, Prom,_ he chides before forcing himself to be practical. Ignis would take stock of the situation and formulate a plan based on whatever information he could glean from his surroundings. Prompto chews the inside of his mouth as he considers. Metal means a man-made enclosure. The size makes him immediately think of a cell, which means there must be a door. Prompto’s brows knit as he squints around. It’s easy to pinpoint a dim outline along one wall. He goes to it, tracing the edges, and yeah, he’s pretty sure that’s a hinge, a detail he must’ve skipped over before. He gives it an experimental push followed by a shove and then a full body strike that leaves his head throbbing but the thing doesn’t so much as creak.

“Dammit,” he mutters. Maybe someone with Gladio’s build would have better luck but all he’s got is a wiry frame and a bump the size of Duscae. He closes his eyes, swallowing a wave of nausea, and when he can think without barfing he inspects the door again. The light creeping in along the bottom is a little brighter so he lowers himself to the floor and splays his fingers against this thin rectangle of light, feeling out the ridges, breath held in concentration. Some kind of slot. For food, maybe? The thing won’t budge but it’s a tiny portal to the outside world at least, a reminder that this isn’t all there is, that a sympathetic somebody could be just beyond.

“Hey! _Hey!”_ He makes a racket, banging on the walls and hollering for help, hopeful that Ignis' fine-tuned hearing will pick up the disturbance and Gladio's broad form will appear in the doorway at any moment, that Noct will clasp his shoulders and search his face for signs of hurt, all murmured questions and relief scattered like stars in his anger-darkened eyes. He hates to worry them. He yells and yells and yells until his bellowing becomes a scraping whisper and when his voice gives out entirely he slides to the floor, back pressed to the door, which he bangs his fists against. The sound’s muffled, probably inaudible, but Prompto perseveres anyway.

He tumbles into an agitated sleep. In one dream, he's rescued only for Noct to run him through with his Engine Blade, eyes hard rubies, hissing of treachery while Prompto clasps the angel's wing guard and tries to push the sword out, hands slipping in his own blood. In another, it's Ignis walking right past and Prompto's yelling, screaming, begging Ignis to notice him. The blind man turns, black hollows where his eyes used to be, and smiles mirthlessly before continuing to walk away. Prompto wakes from this one with tears streaking his cheeks.

Rinse, repeat.

Food isn’t coming, he thinks, stomach rumbling in dismay. He returns to tracking circles around the small cell. Some light would be nice but he supposes that’s not happening anytime soon. The guys will find him though. Prompto cradles this knowledge, a tiny flickering flame of hope, his only warmth. At least there aren’t any bugs in here, the silver lining to the cold conditions. Least, he doesn’t think there’re any. Seriously, if a spider scuttles over his foot he’s gonna launch himself through the door, industrial grade steel or no.

He spends so many minutes (hours? days?) pummelling his fists against the walls that they become a mess of bruises, blue to purple to yellow, dawn breaking across his fissuring knuckles. He methodically pulls apart his gun, cleans every piece (especially the single shining bullet) and reassembles it. He slumps into sleep. More dreams: Gladio, fingers clamped around Prompto’s throat as he dangles him over a pit crawling with daemons. Ignis, face impassive as magitek troopers drag Prompto away while Prompto scrabbles at the ground until his nails tear. Everything zeroes in on the train, that fateful moment where Noct condemns him with open palms, again and again and again.

Rinse, repeat.

The cold slips past his flimsy clothing and sneaks under his skin. He starts spending more and more time holed up in a corner trying to hoard what small warmth he finds. Boredom gnaws at his mind. He feels ravenous, stomach an aching hollow. Numb fingers make his gun cleaning ritual a challenge. He wonders if he’ll ever see sunlight again.

Next time Prompto wakes, a thin rectangular box stamped RATION is sitting near the flap and a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh lurches out of his throat as he scoots over, shivering from both the cold and excitement when he fits the item into the palm of his hand. Peeling back the wrapping he discovers the contents are hard and grey. Something the MTs eat? He didn’t think MTs needed sustenance though so maybe it was regular Niff troop fodder. Prompto wonders if it’s safe, eyeing it dubiously but Ignis’ voice in his head reminds him that poison’s far too creative if the Niffs want him dead. The only certainty is that if he ignores the food he’ll starve to death so Prompto wolfs the stuff and immediately starts gagging because it tastes like some unholy combination of stale cardboard and that time Noct tried his hand at paella. Worse, it sticks in his throat, and he dissolves into a coughing fit that rattles him to his bones, huge hacking lurches that terminate in him throwing up. He blinks back tears. It's been _so long_ since his last meal and he feels _so weak_ and Astrals know when he'll get more food. If.

Prompto wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, wishing he had a soda or something, and takes a steadying breath before picking out the solid bits and swallowing them again, making sure to chew thoroughly this time. It tastes revolting and if he thinks about what he’s doing he’ll be sick again so instead he concentrates on his friends.  _Noct’ll have a field day with this_ , he thinks wryly, imagining sharing a few beers with the guys as they trade embarrassing stories, the way Noct’s eyes will crinkle and his entire face will light up with uproarious laughter. It’ll be worth it to make Noct happy.

 _If Noct even cares about you,_ his traitorous mind whispers. Prompto shoves the thought away and tries not to think about how his eyes are adjusting to the dark.

The food starts coming sporadically after that, though never when Prompto’s conscious. He starts counting time in rations, grey geometry that’s meant to keep him alive. His makeshift day-night cycle is working right up until the moment his eyes are slipping shut and the first chords of a song blast into the room, making Prompto jerk upright like he’s been shot.

_O, Glorious Niflheim!_

_Never ceasing, always marching on_  

_Advance to freedom and prosperity_

_Glorious Niflheim!_

His arms are trembling where he’s trained the gun towards the door. _The first asshole that comes in here. I swear to the Six, he’s getting one right between the eyes._ The song finishes with a sharp click and he grits his teeth, willing down the adrenaline to keep his aim steady. The seconds tick on. When it becomes apparent nobody’s coming, he heaves a sigh, heartrate levelling out. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Prompto tells the darkened room, voice a smoky rasp. He tucks his gun away and curls up again, trying not to feel disappointed.

_O, Glorious Niflheim!_

_Never ceasing…_

Prompto groans. Covers his ears. The music is relentless. Every time he’s on the brink of sleep, the godsdamned national anthem of Niflheim blares like a klaxon, each syllable carving into Prompto’s eardrums and chipping away at his sanity.

Sleep is impossible. Prompto takes to humming his chocobo song, then singing it aloud just to prove they won’t break him but behind every blink is Noct’s vicious snarl and the horrible sensation of freefalling. Noct would never deliberately hurt him. Logically Prompto knows this. It still doesn't inhibit the queasy feeling he gets whenever the incident crosses his mind. 

Time blurs. Prompto wanes. His mind warps under exhaustion until before he knows it, his lips are forming the opening words to that Scourge-damned anthem and he’s rewarded with blessed silence, the recording switching off with a resolute click. He can’t bring himself to care that he’s falling under their spell, too happy to scatter into a long and blank slumber, exhaustion having negated the ability to properly hate himself for capitulating.

When the door finally screeches open, Prompto's in the middle of cleaning his gun. He notices multiple silhouettes at the doorway so makes the snap decision to stash the weapon in the mercifully empty chamber pot. A blink later, two MTs stalk into the room, seize him beneath flailing arms with their pointed metallic claws and drag him into the corridor. Light pierces his eyes. He cries out, stunned and scared as one of the MTs pins him to the wall and a harsh buzzing noise fills his ears, sending waves of panic crashing through him. Whatever it is, it’s not good, and Prompto’s mind chants a repetitive _No no no no no!_ as he throws his body backwards, trying to break free but the MT’s too strong and when its grip tightens enough to bruise, Prompto cries out. A cold hand smothers his face, holding him in place while he struggles futilely and the buzzing gets closer and closer and—

_A rock concert, seventeen and reckless, before, before, before. Noct helping him with his hair, laughing when Prompto says he’s missed his calling as a stylist, the lingering touch of the prince’s fingers through Prompto’s split ends. Rifling through Noct's wardrobe for that leather jacket he never wore, the cut slightly small on Noct's quickly growing body. Staggering to the venue, Prompto's breath catching at the lines of Noct under Insomnian fluorescence. Noct's liquored breath hot in Prompto's ear, their favourite song blasting as he asks if Prompto wants another beer. Staggering back to the apartment, laughing at shadows, singing too loudly and way off key. Prompto's veins, thrumming like a heavy baseline’s caught his heart when Noct's sticky fingers curl through Prompto's hair. A press of chapped lips. Noct was like the catchiest guitar riff, someone who worked his way into Prompto's bloodstream and electrified him like escalating arpeggios, callused palms working over Prompto until he was spilled milk and satisfied and safe._

—The memory had sustained him through most of his hormonally charged youth, a drunken fumbling between the sheets that they never spoke of, but now it leaves a bittersweet taste in his mouth. If Prompto thinks hard enough he can almost remember what it was like to have Noct’s hands laced through his hair, delirious and desperate.

This is what Prompto's thinking after they chuck him back in his cell and he’s left running his hands over his freshly shaved head, trying not to cry. 

* * *

Time ceases to have meaning. Somebody might be coming for him but he’s not sure. The guy with the glasses and the one built like a behemoth and the other one, who’s just a vague shadowy impression on the edge of Prompto’s memory like something glimpsed from the corner of your eye. They were his friends, he thinks, but if they were smart they’d be far, far away from this place. Prompto hopes that’s the case. His life’s not worth their trouble.

The gun and its solitary bullet start taking on a sinister edge. Afraid of his spiralling thoughts, he leaves it in the bed pan and endeavours to forget its existence. Mechanically, he chokes back the rations though he’s not sure why he’s bothering. It feels like years since anybody’s laid a hand on him. He almost lusts for the cruel grip of an MT.

After a very long time, they come for him again. Feet feebly scuffling against his captors, he summons all his strength to yell, “Help! I’m here, help!” and gets backhanded for the effort, stars collecting in the corners of his eyes as an all too familiar coppery taste bursts in his mouth. Prompto yells through it until they gag him, making the blood flood his mouth, and by the time he’s dragged into a dingy, cluttered room he realises with a rush of dismay that he should’ve focussed less on struggling and more on biding his time while scoping for a way out. He looks around now, notes he’s in the room where he’d first regained consciousness. They’d removed his jacket here, attached him to the weird metal X in the middle of the room. For a long time they’d left him, spreadeagled and ready for dissection. Prompto’s arms and legs ache with phantom pain. His brow creases as he tries to recall--

The syringes. Gods, they’d stuck him full of syringes, drained a heap of his blood. The realisation’s punctuated by the MT’s thrusting him forward but Prompto catches himself in time to avoid crashing to the ground. A gun cocks behind him. Terror shoots through his veins. Was this it? Was this the end, wasted and friendless, reduced to a smear of blood on some lonely oil-streaked floor?

“Unit 0595324. Quite a mouthful, don’t you think?”

The voice pricks Prompto, raises the hair on his arms. Like dragging anchors, he lifts his head.

Ardyn is smirking down at him.

Prompto’s heart starts battering against his ribcage, distilled anger filling him to bursting. This guy, an insufferable, masochistic, puffed up, godsdamned basket case. This guy, the sum total of all Prompto’s woes. He’s itching to unload magazine after magazine into this false friend and doesn’t bother hiding his contempt, mouth twisted in a livid grimace beneath the gag. Uncaring, Ardyn continues, “It is however more appropriate than whatever moniker you wear nowadays. Look at you! A pathetic little pretend Lucian and a half-baked magitek trooper. Small wonder you’ve felt displaced your entire life.”

A face flashes through Prompto’s mind. Shy smile, midnight hair, ennui worn like a second skin. _Not true,_ Prompto thinks, lips parting slightly as he remembers the name. Noct. The memories race back in: long school days spent copying each other’s notes and surreptitiously texting; summer nights with the windows of Noct’s apartment flung open while they dissolved into game comas; the roadtrip and how excited he’d been to finally get a chance to use his camera outside of Insomnia, how his heart had ached at having to see Noct wed to a woman who was good and kind but didn’t know him like Prompto knew him. How he’d swallowed his feelings and decided then and there he was going to be _the best_ best man there ever was. The memories fill every corner of his mind with light. How could he have ever forgotten? With Noct, he’d felt accepted and at home and loved.

Whatever else they do, they won’t take Noct from him.

The Chancellor approaches, heavy footfalls like a death knell. He rips the gag off and the disgusting way his gloved hand traces Prompto’s jaw makes Prompto recoil. Ardyn muses, “I suppose you’re thinking of your precious Noct. Oh, how easily we forget. Allow me to offer a helpful reminder: ‘It’s all your fault’, remember?”

The train. Prompto, pinned against the carriage. Noct, hands fisted in Prompto’s collar, eyes a furious storm. _Do you really mean that?_ Prompto had whispered, equal parts confused and terrified. And Noct’s voice crackling with agony as he screamed, _Of course I do!_

“No,” Prompto coughs. Blood trickles down his chin, obscenely warm in the chilly room. Was this why he’d forgotten? He wishes he could stop shaking but it’s uncontrollable, his body completely disconnected from his willpower.

“So you do remember. How marvellous! Try then the tanks, the scientists with their clipboards and disapproving frowns, the rows upon rows of magitek troopers, your brethren.” Ardyn’s index finger presses beneath Prompto’s chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. “No? I imagined that would be more difficult hence why I organised our little jaunt to the magitek production facility. All for you, my dear Unit 0595324. I’m many things but nobody would ever accuse me of being ungenerous.”

Prompto’s thoughts are pinwheeling. “The hell do you want?” he manages. _Guy loves the sound of his own voice. Keep him talking while you work out how the hell to get out of here._

“Merely to offer you what those traitorous Lucians never could. I’ll not mince words: your friends have abandoned you. Gnash and wail all you wish, you can’t deny it. Fortunately you’re the Empire’s prodigal son and there will always be a place for you here. Now. Your clothes, if you don't mind." Boredom drips from each syllable but the gleam in his eyes hints he's enjoying this. 

It's stupid given everything that's happened but aside from a few unavoidable situations in gym, nobody's seen him naked since he was a kid. Camping had been tough, the close quarters making even simple tasks like getting into a clean pair of undies a challenge, but he’d always managed to find some shred of privacy if he desperately needed to bathe or take a leak. Even that one time with Noct had been under cover of darkness, curtains closed against the city lights. In school the older kids used to tease him, called him a fat little flan, occasionally stole his uniform so he was left with nothing but a towel after showering and even though he’s since changed, reacting with shame isn’t something Prompto can unlearn. Heat creeps along his neck and sets his cheeks afire.

But at the same time this final indignity steels something in him, enough for him to push himself to his feet, tamp down the dizziness and tip his chin up in defiance. 

Ardyn looks amused. "Come now, we don't have all day. Well, I do but at the pitiful rate you’re going, you certainly don't." He tosses a bundle of black in Prompto's general direction. It has arms with a strange series of nodules along them, which end in fingerless gloves with more nodules along the knuckles. The white dagger of Niflheim is emblazoned across the spot where a person's heart would be. Prompto’s blood stills when he makes the connection.

Ardyn's smile is like a snake stretching its jaw. "An undersuit, yes, the same kind the MTs wear. Appropriate given your history." Prompto pulls his vest close; Ardyn’s jovial mask darkens with malice. "Strip," he commands. 

And Prompto. Prompto tilts his head back and hocks up the largest, bloodiest loogie of his lifetime straight at the Chancellor.

To his credit, Ardyn doesn’t blink. Instead, his fingers flutter at the MTs. One of them restrains Prompto and the other drives its fist into his solar plexus, making him retch and choke on the bile that burns the back of his throat. Another punch. They let him collapse. Another. He tries to defend himself but a muttered word from Ardyn has the MTs yanking his hands up towards the back of his neck with such force that his shoulders feel wrenched out of their sockets. If he pleads mercy, they might not hurt him but his clothes are the only tangible token of his identity left, the skull motifs and patches he'd picked out with Noct over a humid Saturday afternoon. His clothes are important. He feels Ardyn's eyes boring into him and understands that Ardyn knows this, that this is what Ardyn’s wanted all along. To shatter him.

Through the tears flooding his eyes, Prompto notices Ardyn bringing his blood-splattered face close. “Shall we try this again?” the Chancellor says with a cheerfulness belied by the wicked glimmer in his cat’s eyes and Prompto gets the distinct feeling he’s the mouse in this obscene scenario. He wants to challenge the godsawful monster of a man but he can’t think much beyond the stabbing throb of his arms. Jerkily, he shakes his head. Even that small movement sends pain radiating along his shoulders.

Ardyn’s mouth twists. “A stubborn model, is it? Perhaps your brethren can drum some obedience into you.” He nods at the MTs.

A blade as long as Prompto’s forearm is suddenly glinting in the half-light and before he can squirm away, an MT stretches his arm out like an offering, firmly grasping him at the wrist and shoulder so he can’t pull away. His blood runs cold but the blade is colder as it presses against his bicep, first with almost gentle pressure then with more and more force until the flesh is parting and he’s squirming and banging his free hand against the MTs but they just keep going. A searing sensation flares up. A gasp spills from Prompto’s mouth. The thin, red line painted right down his arm makes his head spin. Methodically, the MT lifts the blade, returns to a point on Prompto’s bicep just beside the first incision and starts slicing again. Prompto clamps down on the inside of his cheek to stop from whimpering and averts his gaze. This, it turns out, is a mistake because he ends up locking eyes with Ardyn, who is watching the entire process with something akin to lust.

A third line. A fourth. Prompto’s entire arm’s on fire but he still keeps silent.

Ardyn hums thoughtfully. “I was expecting music from this model,” he says to the MT that just mindlessly continues carving up Prompto. “Perhaps we can go deeper?”

“No, please!” Prompto finally begs, hating himself for giving in but all too aware that his wasted body can’t take much more abuse. The blade stops. Prompto goes limp with relief, the pain dissolving into a dull burn. He’s halfway through a tremulous sigh when the MT adjusts its grip and plunges in deeper, and the relief warps into a piercing cry.

“That’s the spirit!” Ardyn cheers.

Prompto blacks out.

When he comes to, he’s back in his cell sans clothes. It hurts to move: the subzero temperature has fused his blood to the concrete floor so he has to peel his arm away, wincing because it feels like he’s ripping off his skin. The bodysuit lies a mere handspan away and his first instinct is to back away from the cursed thing because just looking at it makes his stomach churn. The moment he notices his fingertips and toes are utterly numb, violent shivers start playing havoc on his body and he’s hit with the understanding that he seriously could die here, something he hasn’t allowed himself to contemplate until now. He wonders why the realisation isn’t dread-inducing. It’s not like he legitimately wants to kick the bucket – he snarls at the mere idea of giving Ardyn the satisfaction – but somehow the thought of wearing _that suit_ is even worse. Images of the magitek production facility whirl through his mind and he presses the back of his hand to his mouth, willing his meager rations to stay down.

Maybe… he doesn’t think he’s worthy of rescue anyway, and death by something mundane like hypothermia or starvation would be pretty fitting for a loser like him.

Of course, there’s always the gun.

He’s about to roll over and just wait out the last few hours of his existence when he gets the impression of somebody warm and soft dragging a blanket over him, tenderly stroking his flyaway hair out of his face, the scent of citrus and that cheap beer all the teenagers were buying. A voice like waves on a distant shore murmuring, _“Sleep tight, Prom.”_

Prompto lets out a low groan. It’d be easier to just throw in the towel. Regardless, he pulls the bodysuit on. It provides scant warmth but at least he won’t freeze.

Prompto doesn’t know it then, but it’s only the beginning of the torture.

* * *

The ending comes some indeterminate amount of time later when the MTs drag him back to that grimy room with the crucifix-like construction in the middle. He was smart this time. He’d managed to smuggle the gun along too. It doesn’t matter what face Ardyn will choose to wear: the next person to walk through that door is copping a bullet between the eyes and thank the Astrals they never bother cuffing him, probably deeming him a non-threat. Looking like a pitiful little imp has its benefits, he thinks, nervous energy thrumming through him like a chocobo chomping at its bit but he doesn’t have the presence of mind to suppress it. Besides, this is surely going to mean his death. Better to go with manic courage than subdued woe.

A noise at the entrance. Prompto raises the gun with both hands, prepared for anything.

It’s Noctis who strolls through the barred doorway and despite the pep talk, Prompto hesitates for a split second, enough for the guy’s face to morph into exaggerated shock before he disappears in a flash of crimson light. Pain explodes in Prompto’s head. The gun, wrenched out of his slackened grip. The barrel, pressed snug to his temple. The last shreds of his sanity start unspooling as Ardyn’s body pushes flush against Prompto’s back and that familiar mocking lilt tickles the shell of his ear, “Now, now, is that any way to treat a dear old friend? Or perhaps your aggression is evidence that the reprogramming is working. It is so difficult to tell with such a rebellious little soldier.” Ardyn's cloying breath feels wet on the spot behind Prompto's ear and Prompto's skin crawls like it wants to slither right off his body. 

“F-Fuck you!” Prompto stutters, vision spinning like he’s stuck on one of those merry-go-rounds at the Chocobo Festival. Colours flow in and out, the world contorting like he’s viewing it through a funhouse mirror. And at the center, the ringmaster with his horrible leer.

Roughly, Ardyn shoves Prompto away and the impact of his knees on the unforgiving ground has Prompto seeing spots. “Let’s you and I play a game,” Ardyn says conversationally, as if Prompto has any say in the matter, “I told you I’m a generous man. I’ll give you one last chance to earn your right to live.” He places the gun on the floor a few paces away. “A simple game really, one which even a creature of your lowly intelligence should be able to grasp. I stand here like so,” he turns, showing his back to his captive, “and you try to kill me.” He glances over his shoulder and adds, “Doesn’t that sound _fun?”_ and the way his voice curls around the last word turns Prompto’s blood to ice.

Prompto stares. This has to be some sick joke. Ardyn’s looking for an excuse to punish him. That must be it.

Ardyn looks away again, says, “In your own time now. I won’t peek, I promise.”

But does he even need an excuse? Prompto’s heart’s thrashing against his ribcage, palms clammy like a gigantoad’s skin. Ardyn could slaughter him at the drop of his own ridiculous fedora so if Prompto’s doomed either way he resolves to go down fighting. He gathers whatever scraps of strength remain, tells himself that adrenaline isn’t going to help here, that he needs to be swift and precise. Four quick breaths to steel his nerves then he’s on the move, fast as his namesake. Three swift strides to cross the distance. Two hands, remarkably steady, snatching the weapon and aiming it directly at the Chancellor’s head. Prompto’s mouth splits in a triumphant grin as he pulls the trigger.

One _click_.

Prompto’s eyes widen. That solitary sound reverberates in his skull, an echo of his failure as he realises the gun wasn’t even loaded, that Ardyn must’ve removed the bullet at some point. _Fuck._ The horror slams into every pore until he’s struggling to breathe. Dimly, he’s aware of Ardyn facing him again, the shiny glint of a bullet tossed carelessly between gloved hands. His mouth’s moving but the words crash over Prompto like a receding tide then the Chancellor’s ruthlessly twisting Prompto’s trigger hand. The bones snap; Prompto’s vision swims. A heavy boot connects with Prompto’s teeth and sends him sprawling.

Ardyn strolls forward, places his foot on Prompto’s abused hand. A strangled, high-pitched keening sound rips from Prompto’s throat. “Poor Unit 0595324. You just couldn’t think past your killing machine instincts, could you? Had to go straight for the gun. If you’d tried some more creative method of execution, who knows, perhaps you may even have wounded me.” Ardyn flips the bullet and slots it neatly into the chamber. “Gold star for trying,” he says and Prompto _feels_ the dark intent dripping from each word as he’s drawn to his feet by his injured hand and the unmistakeable cold of a gun barrel pushes against his temple. White static blankets Prompto’s brain like freshly fallen snow. Ardyn drawls, “I had rather hoped it wouldn’t come to this but what else is there to do with a defective model? Would you like to do the honours or shall I?”

Prompto’s trembling escalates to full-body shudders. His breaths stutter raggedly in the otherwise silent room. His entire body’s throbbing, his mouth’s dripping blood and his pulverised hand is pulsating as if Titan himself has crushed it. He nurtures a thousand ways to destroy Ardyn, a morbid carousel of flayed skin and burned eyes and a torn mouth flurrying through his mind's eye. _But I can’t. I can’t I can’t I can’t_ and he swallows the animalistic urge.

“S-Stop,” Prompto sobs, fighting to get the words through his chattering teeth. “Whatever you want. I’ll do it. Whatever you want.” He can pretend, just for a little while. Let them think he’s broken. And when their backs are turned…

The oppressive weight of the gun abruptly vanishes. “Excellent!” Ardyn exclaims. He gestures to the MTs again, which clip Prompto into the metal cross he’d occupied a lifetime ago before wheeling over some device that looks like a large computer with numerous tubes sprouting from the back, some with pads or empty sockets at the ends, and a user interface that reminds Prompto of the first and only gaming console he’d messed around with before becoming friends with a prince who could afford the world. His reverie is abruptly severed when he notices the sizeable vat swirling with an ominous black substance sitting just above the ancient interface and a nameless dread starts crushing his lungs, stealing his breath away.

 _What the actual **fuck?**_ Prompto’s pulse skyrockets. One MT attaches the pads to Prompto’s chest while the other hooks the tubes into the nodules along Prompto’s arms. It’s at this moment, staring into the swirling darkness, that the futility of everything finally sinks in. _They’re not coming_ , Prompto frets as the MTs tighten the bonds around his ankles. _Maybe they’re already dead._

Ardyn saunters to his side and lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “This procedure normally doesn’t work on adults, you know. Something to do with a highly developed sense of self. You, however, are a _special case_.” Pain stabs along Prompto’s arms and fingers. Horror-struck, he realises the MTs are pushing needles into him. _Just like last time._ The memories batter him. Not proper memories exactly, just the impression that he’s been violated like this before, experimented on like he was a piece of meat, a snippet of data to be manipulated and corrupted.  

The machine whirs to life. Raw terror claws its way up Prompto’s throat as the thing starts pumping black sludge along the tubes. _Miasma. They’re gonna—_ Closer and closer, and Prompto can barely think, can barely breathe. Ardyn’s eyes glint with glee, voice curling like poisoned honey. “A soulless vessel that’s wandered the world for two decades, searching for a place to belong. A hollow shell that’s tried to fill itself with meaning, only to come up empty. But now you eat their food. You sing their song. You wear their clothes.” Ardyn’s voice drops to a sinister purr. “You and I both know you’ve no identity left to fight against daemonification.”

The black ooze reaches his skin. 

Prompto screams.

* * *

The corridors are endless. Gladio feels like he’s been moving for hours, limbs heavy with exertion, sweat running down his neck despite the Gralean winter reaching subzero temperatures, and okay, maybe he’d been dumb when he’d insisted on his usual vest-sans-shirt combo. He’d expected Iggy to call him out if it was serious though. _Guess he’s got bigger fish to fry,_ Gladio grimaces as they turn down another corridor and he swipes at one of those pesky gremlins that have been harrying them for the past forever.

Noct’s voice bounces down the long tunnel. “Prompto? Prompto!”

Gladio’s heart leaps. He sprints towards Noct’s voice, barrelling through a couple of gremlins and grabbing Ignis on his way. They arrive in time to see Noct undoing the last clasp and Prompto tumbling out of something that looks alarmingly like a torture device. Least, he thinks it’s Prompto: the kid’s a mess, emaciated frame and hair pared back to a buzzcut and face like a Solheim painting. Impossibly, he looks like he’s been starved for months, not just a week. _The hell’ve they done to him?_ he fumes, relief quickly overwhelmed by anger at whoever’s responsible as he crouches beside Noct, whose pale face seems ready to crumple. A litany of soothing words gushes from the King-in-waiting’s lips: “I’m here, Prom, it’s gonna be okay, I’m here." 

“We’re all here,” Gladio reassures, as much for Noct’s benefit as Prompto’s.

Prompto’s eyes are glazed over but something snaps into focus when he notes Noct. He lets out a pitiful cry, tries to push him away. Noct flinches, hurt flickering over his face, but doesn’t let go. “Prom, it’s me, Noct.”

Prompto emits a high pitched wail, struggles intensifying. Gladio grimaces. “Easy, tough guy,” he instructs, nudging Noct out of the way and grabbing Prompto as gently as he can. This close, the foul stench is unavoidable and Gladio gulps back nausea. Blood and guts he’s used to, yeah, but utter abjection… The kid meets Gladio’s gaze for a split second and his eyes loll back until only the whites are visible.

A distressed noise spills from Noct’s lips. “Ignis—!”

Hovering at their side, Ignis says, “I can help but I need someone to be my eyes. Gladio, if you would.”

Battle-hardened though he is, the damage makes even Gladio’s stomach clench. “Smashed up face, nasty lump on his head. He’s wearin’ some kind of bodysuit that looks about as good for this weather as my outfit. ”

“It will have to go. We need to properly catalogue the extent of the damage.” Gladio grunts affirmative and Ignis adds, “Noct, can you look around for more suitable attire? We don’t want to leave him exposed longer than necessary.”

“On it,” Noct says, determination fighting through the paralysing fear.

Gladio takes Noct’s position supporting their injured friend. He begins carefully peeling off Prompto’s bodysuit. “Shit,” he hisses when he reveals the kid’s warped hands. Ugly black lines are spidering along his fingers, tapering off around his wrists. It’s like nothing he’s ever seen.

Ignis lays a steadying hand on his shoulder. Even this grounding gesture doesn’t placate the rage swirling deep in Gladio’s chest. “Tell me,” Ignis says and Gladio explains it all. Prompto fades in and out of consciousness as the rumbling ebb and flow of Gladio’s voice catalogues the injuries. The list is long enough that Noct’s back with Prompto’s well-worn garments before Gladio can even finish, each additional "lacerations on left shoulder" or "infected lesion on foot" making Noct's expression tighten until his teeth are clenched like rows of perfect MTs, unable or unwilling to tear his gaze away. A frustrated sound rips from Noct’s throat and he cries, “Enough already! We get it, he’s hurt. Now can we stop talking and fucking _do something?”_

Prompto’s eyes twitch open. “I,” he gasps, the word laced with pain and resignation, “I know it’s you.”

Immediately, Noct’s attention flies to his friend, palms open like he wants to offer a comforting touch but he restrains himself, probably conscious of inflicting further hurt. “Yeah. Bet I’m the last person you want to see, huh?”

Prompto closes his eyes. He looks so, so worn, like the slightest knock might tip him over the edge. Thank Astrals for the emergency elixirs they each carry, Gladio thinks, observing Ignis retrieve a vial from his utility belt.

“I’m so sorry, Prom.” The sound of Noct’s voice cracking makes Gladio’s anger peak and he tugs him away, giving Ignis room to work.

“Prompto,” Ignis tilts his head in the blonde’s direction, “your body has been subjected to trauma significant enough that the power of the elixir itself might send you into shock. I wish there was another way but this will have to suffice. Try to relax.”

If Prompto’s heard, he gives no sign. Gladio holds his breath as Ignis shatters the elixir over Prompto’s head. He waits for the cuts to begin knitting together, for the bones to shift back into place and the bruises to disappear under the warm restorative rush. But it never happens.

"The hell," Gladio mutters, gaze raking over Prompto's broken body. The kid’s eyes flutter open, a marginally more lucid gleam to them, but that’s about all Gladio can say. "You feelin' any better?"

"Um… a little?" Prompto tries, voice dusty from disuse and oddly layered with… confusion? Gladio wonders why. That’s a mystery for another day though, preferably one where his buddy’s not bleeding out, and he’s already reaching for his own elixir. "Maybe it was a dud. I'm gonna try again."

"Wait," Ignis says, laying his fingers on Gladio's forearm. "We've scarce supplies as is. Prompto, is there any reason our curatives may have limited efficacy?"

Prompto grimaces. He meets Ignis’ cool assessment with a steely resolve that Gladio hadn’t expected and counters with, “The first thing you baked me. What was it?” Despite Prompto looking like he’s lost a fight with a pack of voreteeth, the fact that he still manages the question makes it clear the elixir has given him a burst of energy if nothing else. Hopefully it’ll be enough to get them out of here.

“Prompto?” His surprise is evident. Gladio has no idea why the hell they’re talking about baked goods but when he tries cutting the conversation, Prompto says plainly, “Just tell me.”

Ignis doesn’t pause. “A macerated strawberry and basil tart topped with a pistachio crunch. You devoured three of them and most of His Highness’s too.”

Prompto throws his voice into a lower register, “’Basil? Why’d you put basil in here?’” and Noct’s face lights up at the impersonation. The sliver of Prompto’s old cheer yields to quiet awe as he exhales a shuddering breath. “You really did come,” he says through a watery smile, and Gladio’s heart just about splits in two. The kid swallows, expression dimming. “They injected me with, with something.”

“Poison?” Gladio guesses.

Ignis shakes his head. “Impossible to tell given our limited diagnostic tools. We need a hospital. The medical ward here may serve but I’m not certain we want to risk overstaying our welcome.”

“So what do we do? We can’t just leave him here,” Noct says. Ignis unclips the medkit from his belt; Gladio says nothing. “We can’t,” Noct repeats, eyes flaring.

“Nobody is suggesting we abandon Prompto,” Ignis says, laying out what bare bones supplies he carries in the event the Armiger becomes inaccessible, and Gladio gets the distinct impression the words are directed at him. He frowns. He can’t help being practical, not when every moment they spend here puts Noct’s life in jeopardy. If Gladio was incapacitated he wouldn’t think twice about telling his liege to go on without him. He’d thought Ignis knew better but… Gladio shakes his head. After Altissia, even Ignis had learned how to be selfish.

Gladio watches Ignis and Noct dabbing antiseptic along Prompto’s wounds. He sighs. “Guess we better patch him up then,” he says.

"This won't be pleasant," Ignis warns, passing over a needle and sutures to Gladio. Noct’s eyes blaze as he touches Prompto’s wrist with a gentleness that makes Prompto stifle a whimper. "I'll be right here," he says.

Gladio offers what he hopes is a reassuring smile. "Ready for your makeover?"

Prompto shivers but he nods and Gladio’s overwhelmed by the kid’s courage. "My gown better be the best of the ball or I'm hunting you down, big guy."

Gladio doesn’t know it then, but it’s the last joke they’ll make for a long time.


	2. Somniphobia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The remaining bros escape Gralea but the loss of Noct hangs heavy over their heads.

Noct’s gone.

Leaving him encased in cold crystal like some specimen in a museum is the last thing Gladio wants to do but then the daemons are coming and everything’s a blur of shoving Ignis back, yelling at him to protect Prompto, who’s long since run out of ammo. He tries to reach into that strange between-space where his greatsword’s stashed but comes up empty, a surprised grunt his only defense against the first gremlin that latches onto his forearm with needle-sharp teeth. He tosses the thing away. If the Armiger’s gone… Gladio doesn’t want to think about it but he’s a soldier who’ll face up to any challenge, even if it sends his blood boiling when he reaches the only possible, horrible conclusion.

Noct’s not just gone. Noct’s _dead._

He unleashes a roar to rival any behemoth’s; the daemonic swarm titters with what seems like perverse glee. The twilight shimmer of the crystal makes their claws and teeth glint wickedly as they jostle at the entry, eager for flesh. With a rail thin Prompto slumped at the Crystal’s base and Ignis crouched by his side, feeling out the area where some sutures have split apart, it’s all on Gladio.

 _Fine with me._ He eyes the first gremlin, poised to spring. _Come to papa!_

Weaponless doesn’t equal defenceless and there’s something extremely satisfying in the way his fist crunches into the next daemon’s head, propelling it over the walkway’s handrail where it spirals into the abyss, and with that the floodgates open. A hoard of the creatures streams forward, high pitched cries echoing throughout the chamber. Gladio fights like he’s Cor the Immortal, ignoring each scratch and bite, veins pumping vengeance, heart crying out for blood. Enemies swarm around him, too many to count, but he fights on until his body’s riddled with wounds and his movements turn sluggish from blood loss, until he seriously considers that this might be the end, the Shield going out with a glorious bang beneath the King-in-waiting’s corpse. Who knows, maybe they’ll even make songs about him.

Giving up is no option though, Gladio knows, gritting his teeth as he fends off another swipe. It’s not just his life on the line here. Beside him, Ignis is doing his best to keep the creatures at bay with the aid of his cane, shirt a ruin of red. Gladio’s eyes flicker to Prompto, skin waxen, chest fluttering like a daggerquill’s wings. _Dammit._ It’d be simple enough to snatch the kid up and make a break for it. Sure, he’d take a beating, shouldering his way through the dozen daemons clustered at the doorway, but he could do it.

He could, if not for Ignis.

After twenty-odd years of putting his own needs behind others’, of fucking course Ignis had chosen the worst possible moment to be selfish, knowing he was a liability yet demanding he accompany them. Letting Ignis hang around had been a terrible idea. Any soldier worth half a gil would’ve taken the honourable discharge, gone and lived out his life somewhere dull and cosy. But Ignis isn’t a soldier, not the same way as Gladio who’s breathed gunpowder and metal from the moment he was born. A pained grunt reaches Gladio’s ears. He checks another attack and glances at the man at his side, bears witness to the way he rips a gremlin free from his shoulder, chest heaving, face sweat-damp and strained, once-perfectly sculpted hair now fraying at the front. Gladio’s heart tightens. Ignis isn’t a soldier, but his commitment shines stronger than the light of the Crystal itself.

“Iggy!” he yells as he delivers a particularly punishing axe kick to a gremlin’s head, which collapses in a black swirl. Exertion’s bearing down heavily now. Part of him is thinking how lucky he’s been to have such a calming voice of reason in his life, someone who’d bleed out with him to the bitter end. The soldier part knows there’s no time for sentimentality though. “Grab Prom! I’m gonna clear a path.”

“There are too many,” Ignis heaves, voice tight, and why does he have to be so godsdamn right all the time?

“Won’t be when I’m through with ‘em,” he grunts back with a confidence he doesn’t fully feel, knowing this is their only shot. Ignis must understand too because next moment he’s hefting Prompto over his shoulder (and it’s testament to how tired he is that he struggles to lift even the waifish kid) and Gladio nods, barks, “Stay close!”

The daemons pause. _Damn right you better be pissin’ yourselves_. He’s pumped to go but a strange air is now descending and the gremlins start falling back, chattering subsiding until it’s quieter than the dank, winding tunnels of the Keycatrich Trench. Uncertain, Gladio holds his ground.

“What is it?” Ignis asks, head whipping around, trying to pinpoint the enemy.

Gladio’s grin slips as he recognises the skittish energy lesser predators exhibit when a top tier baddie enters their territory. The hairs on his arms prickle. “Nothin’ good.”

The ominous thud of heavy combat boots drums against Gladio’s ears. Daemons part like water. A silhouette strides out of the dark and steps into the Crystal’s glow, arms spread in false blessing, mocking smile curled on its lips.

And Ardyn says, “Oh my, did I ruin your hero moment?” 

* * *

It’s thanks to the Chancellor, that bastard, that they escape though Gladio’s in half a mind to spit the guy’s “help” back in his face. They’re led to a small MT carrier, which Gladio has only a vague idea how to pilot but with Ignis’ book smarts they puzzle it out. It has zero insulation (what need have MT’s for warmth?) so the journey passes in shivering silence, Ignis acting medic for Prompto. Poor kid. They've cracked a few potions over him but this only serves to anchor him mentally, which means he gets all the pain and none of the blissfulness of sleep. Ignis believes it's a side effect of that black poison ruining Prompto's hands.

So with Prompto whimpering at even a whiff of turbulence, Gladio's left stressing about hurting their ward along with the storm that’s picking up, which is gonna be a bitch to fly through and will probably have Prompto crying out every time they’re buffeted by the wind. To add some modicum of comfort to the trip, Ignis risks giving the kid a mild sedative from the craft’s emergency supplies, which thankfully does the trick, and Prompto tumbles into unconsciousness. If only Gladio could have the same luxury. Not that he wants to be starved and abused within a fingernail’s breadth of his life but not having to cope with the yawning absence that was Noct? _Damn, must be nice_ , he thinks as he grips the controls until veins pop on the backs of his hands, all restless energy and the furious need to do something _,_ wondering what the hell they even _could_ do now. The Prophecies never said shit about the King of Light taking a premature dirt nap.

Somehow they outrun the storm until they hit the Lucian coast and their fuel runs out. Landing involves some serious acrobatic manoeuvres and Gladio nearly winds up crashing the damn ship on approximately three occasions, but he eventually sets them down near a long abandoned lighthouse on Lucis’ southwestern coast if the ship’s mapping system’s to be believed. It’s as far from the capital as you can get while still being in the country. “My best guess is the Cape of Good Hope,” Ignis hazards with an irritated inflection, probably wishing he could see the landscape and make the claim with certainty. For his part, Gladio can’t stopper the disbelieving snort at the moniker. Ignis continues, “Technically Niflheim territory but it’s strategically unimportant. We should be safe here for a time, at least until Prompto’s recovered enough to make a move.” He tilts his head up and sniffs. “It appears the storm is almost upon us. We’d best move to warmer quarters.”

Lightning flashes across the brooding sky. The heavy air simmers around them as Gladio scoops the emaciated kid into his arms (his breathing stutters but he keeps sleeping) and says, “Right. Let’s mosey.”

With Ignis lightly touching his elbow for guidance, they pick their way across the open field, stumbling every other step. To distract from his exhaustion and too-loud thoughts, Gladio tries for some idle chitchat but Ignis tends towards quietude, a sullen quality to his silence that makes Gladio irrationally angry. _Don’t tell me I’ve gotta babysit you too,_ he grouses as the heavens open, plastering their hair to their scalps. He starts thinking of the way Noct’s eyes had sparked excitedly after Prompto discovered that extra strength hair gel in the market in Lestallum. “I guess the budget’ll stretch _,_ ” Noct had said with feigned nonchalance, scrubbing his hand through the back of his hair, gaze cutting to the side as he added, “Just don’t tell Specs, okay?” They hadn’t been carefree but they’d been happy enough, and Gladio brutally severs the thought, unwilling to prod the massive, gaping wound that keeps catching him off guard whenever he allows his mind to wander.

By the time they reach the living quarters adjoined to the lighthouse tower itself, Gladio only has the energy for a cursory assessment to ensure the place really is vacant before they finally shamble inside, water pooling at their feet, clothes clinging oppressively to their skin. He rouses Prompto long enough to get him out of his wet clothes and into some chocobo print pyjamas he roots out of a drawer, which he thinks the kid might get a kick out of. Even this isn’t enough to perk Prompto up but he murmurs thanks before spending the rest of the day sleeping like a sunken creature at the bottom of the ocean.

He finds Ignis by the kitchen window, dead gaze staring at nothing. Gladio clears his throat, ignoring the chill that’s settling in his bones and says, “I’d better go stash the ship. Don’t want anyone stickybeaking around.”

Ignis makes a noncommittal noise. The urge to grab his shoulders, dig in his fingers until they bruise and shake some life into the guy is near irrepressible. Maybe he should cut him some slack but Ignis isn’t the only one hurting right now and Gladio’s annoyed that he’s acting like it. “Reckon you can whip up something? Any skinnier and Prom’s gonna disappear into his doona.” Instinctively, he tugs open the refrigerator just as Ignis warns, “I wouldn’t recommend—” and then they’re overwhelmed by the fetid smell of rotting food. Gagging, Gladio quickly slams the door.

Ignis’ pinched mouth proves how unimpressed he is. “The residents of this place left some time ago so I’m afraid fresh food is off the menu. The pantry however may hold some staples, perhaps even a few of your favourites.”

Gladio lifts his eyebrows. “Cup Noodles?” Ignis nods. “Hm. Maybe later.” He heaves a weary sigh and glances out the window, notes the now torrential rain cascading over the eaves. The part of him that’s been running on zero sleep for the last however many days really doesn’t want to brave the deluge again. The greater part of him reasons the ship’s not gonna hide itself. And, if he’s being honest, he hates being stuck in this suffocating quiet where he keeps circling back to a singular, terrible truth: what kind of Shield doesn’t die before his King?

“Nobody’s likely to find us in this weather,” Ignis says softly.

Gladio ignores the peace offering and when he leaves, he doesn’t look back.

* * *

A voice booming with anger jolts Prompto awake. He scrambles a retreat – _throbbing stabbing 0595324 needles your fault --_ and scans for danger, pulse rushing in his ears, bile clawing at his gullet as panic engulfs him like an alpine waterfall, crushing his lungs until he can only take shallow gulps. The room is empty save some furniture, a rumpled jacket discarded across the chair in the corner, a first aid kit propped atop the dresser. With no immediate threat in the area he works hard to steady his breathing, willing his heart to stop thundering as his gaze zeroes in on the jacket. Ignis’ jacket. _The guys. They came for me._ The joy is short lived though, dispelled by the raised voices outside, clearly audible from Prompto’s position.

“You act like you’re the only one suffering but I cared about him too! Maybe not the same way but I still cared, dammit!”

“Gladio.” Ignis sounds short, annoyed, over it. Or is it tired, numb, desperate?

“Yeah, that’s right. I know you two had something going on. You reckon you played it so cool with your perfect poker face but I’ve known you for _ten years,_ Ignis. Knew Noct even longer. You can’t hide something like that, not from me.”

“ _Gladio_ ,” Ignis says, whip sharp and Prompto’s stomach flips because he’s never heard Ignis legitimately incensed. “There was nothing between us. Noct was my friend, yes, but first and foremost he was my prince. Our relationship never skirted the borders of professionalism.”

“Never—!” Gladio barks a derisive laugh. “You cooked for him. You helped him study. You washed his fucking underwear!”

“It was my duty!” Ignis snaps. “At least I carried it out properly!”

Prompto sucks in a sharp breath. A dreadful silence ensues. _I’ve gotta stop them,_ he frets, that singular thought fuelling him through the pain as he throws the covers off, wincing when his black veined hands fumble with the sheets. The room spins violently when he forces himself up, the sun streaming in from the window unnaturally hot on his skin, but he just sets his jaw and advances, each step sending sharp spikes through his quaking legs until he gets to the threshold where his mouth runs dry as he drinks in Ignis’ rigid posture, Gladio’s ready-to-bolt stance.

“Whatever,” Gladio seethes in an oddly choked off voice.

A tidal wave of agony crashes over Prompto. _Gotta…_ Everything fades out around the edges; he slouches against the doorframe and pushes his wrist to his forehead. Dimly, he notes the broad expanse of Gladio’s back vanishing as Ignis calls the Shield’s name and stretches out a hand in supplication. _Dammit,_ Prompto curses, wishing he was just a little bit stronger, trying to concentrate on the way Ignis removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. His entire body’s pulsating though and he crumples to the floor like a puppet with severed strings.

The noise attracts Ignis’ attention. “Prompto?”

Prompto fights to keep quiet, internally urging Ignis to chase after their friend, but he can’t help it: a treacherous groan escapes his lips. Next moment, firm hands are cradling his head, warm fingertips skimming his wounds to ensure they haven’t split open as Ignis chides, “You shouldn’t be wandering about.”

Prompto doesn’t care. “Gladio,” he pleads, tensing beneath the touch.

Ignis shakes his head, a bitter edge leeching into his tone that makes Prompto wonder exactly how much his friends have been fighting while he was out of it. “A lost cause. He’s off to visit his sister in Lestallum. Against my better judgement, I might add.”

Prompto’s nose wrinkles. “Why’s that?”

Ignis looks as if he’s weighing whether Prompto’s in any condition to hear the full story. In the end, honesty wins out. “We utilised the lighthouse’s radio system to keep track of the state of affairs. Mostly it’s Niflheim propaganda but occasionally we pick up some informative tidbits.” His voice turns hard. “Apparently, daemons have begun congregating around Lestallum. The power plant is still functional so the light keeps them at bay but considering they’ve shown little in the way of intelligence up until now, the mere fact that they’re gathering is troublesome.”

“And Gladio’s going there?” Silence. Fear clutches at Prompto, cold hands around his windpipe. “All by himself? And we’re meant to be okay with this?”

“You’re in no condition,” Ignis warns, as if reading Prompto’s mind.

“Like I care.” He’s being stupid, he knows, but Prompto’s had enough of being safeguarded and spurned. Infuriatingly, Ignis ignores his protestations with the practised ease of somebody used to dealing with bratty behaviour, instead looping an arm around Prompto’s thin waist and helping him to his feet. It’s almost okay until Ignis’ palm settles across Prompto’s lower back and the urge to shy away crashes down with the force of Leviathan’s tsunamis, all concern for Gladio stripped away by the rushing tide, Prompto’s world condensing to that single point of contact that steals the breath from his lungs. Cut outs of his imprisonment flicker across his mind’s eye: the drone of the clippers as they systemically stripped him of his identity; the kiss of a dagger across his forearms and the confusion when he’d been healed only for the blade to cut in again; the bite of a whip against his back _(One hundred and fourteen sounds like a lucky number. Let’s try for that, shall we?)_ He’d barely sustained five lashes before passing out.

 _Ignis. Just Ignis._ Ignis would never hurt him. He knows this like he knows Gladio can put away ten hamburgers in one sitting, like he knows Noct’s hair smells like that lemonade-scented shampoo Prompto accidentally left at his apartment. He internally chants Ignis’ name until his thoughts are blotted out by the sensation of a steady hand, Ignis murmuring Prompto’s name softly as he shepherds him towards the bed. So warm even through the gloves, and Prompto takes solace in the red imprint he imagines is blossoming against his tender flesh. It would be nice to be reclaimed by one of his friends, to have every one of Ardyn’s brands seared away.

Ignis lowers Prompto into the sheets. “I’ll need to ensure you haven’t exacerbated your wounds,” he says in that no-nonsense tone he gets when he’s admonishing Noct but trying not to make it obvious because he doesn’t want Noct to sulk. He begins loosening the buttons of Prompto’s pyjama top.

Remembering exactly why Ignis had been hauling him back to bed, Prompto bats him away and grouches, “Fine, I’m sick, whatever. You and Noct go without me. We can’t leave Gladio out there on his own. Bros before quests for vengeance and all, right?”

The distinct sound of Ignis sucking a breath through clenched teeth rings through the air. The crack in composure is so unlike him that Prompto’s immediately on edge. Something is very, very wrong. He reminds his lungs to do their thing and takes a deep breath, and another, and another. He can’t let himself think the worst so he sticks with levity: “What? His Royal Sleepiness too beat to lend a hand?”

A deep breath, then, “He is… no longer with us.”

“Huh?” Prompto says, because Ignis isn’t making any sense.

Ignis’ face is taut in a similar way to all those months ago when they’d flipped open that newspaper to see _Insomnia Falls!_ boldly blaring back at them. Similar, except at this moment he looks a thousand times worse, and when he speaks again the tightness is in his voice too, like forcing the words out is harder than getting Noct to eat his greens. “He never made it out of Zegnautus, the place where you were held captive. I’m sorry, Prompto. I understand you two were especially close.”

Prompto’s heart throbs like it’s been kicked by a catoblepas.

_Noct…_

An awful black wave crashes straight down his throat and balloons his lungs until he’s sure he’ll explode. He doesn’t complain though, just greedily swallows it all until the vile water starts leaking from his eyes, breath hitching like a dying thing. Noct, who got kicked out of the arcade when the manager caught him trying to cheat his way to that chocobo plush Prompto had been eyeing for weeks. Noct, who couldn’t cook to save himself but knew all the best hole-in-the-wall diners down the dodgiest Insomnian streets where Prompto was convinced they’d get legitimately shanked rather than the slow cooked garula shanks they were seeking. Noct, who could make Prompto smile whenever he was having a rough day, who knew the exact angle to tilt his mouth so their teeth wouldn’t collide again, who stayed up with him until 3AM trying to clear the latest raid, who gave a muffled hiss when he came in Prompto’s hand, who once fell asleep on a rollercoaster. Noct. Noct. Noct. 

Ignis drones on like he’s reading the method of his latest recipe, like talking about it some more is gonna help fill the gaping hole that’s opened in Prompto’s chest where his heart should be. “The Crystal absorbed him. There was nothing we could do to stop it.” He sounds unconvinced to Prompto’s ears but he doesn’t say more on the matter, just steps forward and finds the buttons of Prompto’s pyjama top again. “Now, let’s see about those wounds.”

Tears trek down Prompto’s cheeks. Normally he’d be self-conscious about even the concept of somebody staring at his body but all he can do now is grip the sheets hard, uncaring of the pain that jabs through his hands. _If I’d been stronger, maybe I could’ve…_ Could’ve what? Not fallen off that train? Escaped from Zegnautus unassisted? Protected Noct? He stifles a hysterical bark of laughter at this last thought, Ignis pushing the fabric away from Prompto’s chest to trace the weeping sutures. So stupid. His breaths are coming in staccato bursts now and he’s vaguely aware of Ignis trying to placate him but all he can think is how he’s so, so stupid, because there’s no way in Eos that Prompto could’ve succeeded where Ignis and Gladio had failed.

…Ignis and Gladio. Noct’s guardians. The tears are flowing with abandon now but beyond the impending hysteria, a hot fury starts taking hold. Sure, he’s always been hopeless, but he hasn’t trained his _entire godsdamned life_ to look after Noct. He was the best friend, not the hired help, and here’s Ignis, a little worse for wear but _alive_ , standing there with that diplomat’s face like he doesn’t even give half a shit. It doesn’t occur to him that Ignis might be putting on a brave front for his benefit. All rationality is smothered by the blood pulsating in his ears as Prompto’s voice rises in righteous anger. “How could you let this happen? You’re his fucking _right hand man,_ Ignis! He trusted you more than anyone!”

The words hit Ignis like physical blows. The mask cracks and for a brief instant, Prompto sees the emotion roiling just beneath the surface. Immediately, he wishes he could take it back, ire dissolving like daemons at daybreak, but to apologise would be to acknowledge the voice inside saying it’s all Prompto’s fault and he’s not ready to go there yet.

“You must be tried. I’ll let you get some rest,” Ignis says as he gathers his medical supplies and leaves, and the miniscule waver in his voice makes Prompto’s heart shatter all over again.

* * *

Noct’s dead, Gladio isn’t coming back and Ignis probably hates his guts. These are the three thoughts that plague Prompto as he gazes out the window. Sensations ripple over him: the _woosh_ of waves and indignant screeches of birds; the smell of salt and spray and freedom; the sun dipping towards the horizon like inevitability. Detached, he experiences them all like he’s sitting in the third row of the cinema watching some other blonde kid staring at nothing. Some other blonde kid who got his best friend slash lover killed. Some other blonde kid who couldn’t even die properly. He stares sunward, uncaring when his eyeballs start stinging, happy to be blinded by something so dazzling. Eventually his eyes slip shut.

He’s woken by a soft knock at the door. Prompto can smell the comforting aroma before Ignis, bowl in hand, clears his throat and says, “I’ve brought some soup.”

The room’s dim but moonlight’s streaming through the window so he tugs the sheets up to hide the scars and old stretch marks. A moment later he realises he’s acting like a royal idiot because it’s not like Ignis can see him. Prompto licks his lips. “Okay,” he utters in a voice raspy with disuse, wondering why Ignis is being nice to him instead of kicking his ass into oblivion. He does seem like more of a slow burn vengeance kinda guy though. Maybe the soup’s laced with some nasty laxative?

A hesitant beat. Ignis approaches, face drawn and pale. Like ticking objectives off a quest log, Prompto takes in the muddy shoes, the rumpled pants and the limp suspenders, which Ignis has left to dangle behind him as if his train of thought was derailed before he could completely remove them. The shirt is the worst: torn like it's been borrowed by a cactuar, stark white interrupted by vivid slashes of red-brown revealing the sliced skin beneath. It's hardly good for a dish rag much less a dress shirt.

"...Thanks," Prompto manages, throat tight. Everyone went to so much trouble just to rescue him. _Should've left me_ , he thinks as he stares at the bowl Ignis is offering, self-loathing gnawing away like necrosing bacteria. The truth of the matter is undeniable.  _If you didn’t try to find me, you’d still be alive. Dammit, Noct, of all the times to play hero._ There’s no real fire in the thought though, just the hollow ache of loss.

"Not to your liking?" Ignis asks in that open way that indicates he wants to pinpoint the shortcomings of the dish for improvement’s sake. It almost makes Prompto believe everything's normal.

"N-No, it's not that!" Prompto stutters, grabbing for the bowl. Of course, his clumsy hands capsize the entire thing and the precious broth flies everywhere, Prompto squeaking as hot flecks spatter his chest before the bowl bounces off the bed and clatters to the floor. The spoon skitters halfway across the room. Ignis steps back but doesn't fully avoid the slosh catching the bottom of his pants.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry!" Prompto gushes, feeling lower than the gross algae infecting the waters of the Vesperpool and he makes to recover the items but Ignis pushes him back firmly enough that it kinda hurts. He stoops and gropes around for the objects. Prompto's heart twists. On top of it all, Ignis looking so godsdamn helpless is more than the blonde can take. 

"I'm sorry," Prompto chokes, and it's not just for the soup. "I'm so fucking sorry." For Ignis' blindness, for Ardyn's ruse, for ending up captive, for Noct. For blaming Ignis because that was more palatable than admitting it’s Prompto’s fault that Noct’s dead. He sobs, uncaring that each fresh heave sends pain shooting through his body.

After a moment, he feels the bed dip then heat radiating at his side. The shock is instant – Ignis never seemed like a warm fuzzies kind of guy – but then Prompto doesn’t have the energy to wonder why. Defeated, he slumps against his companion and yeah, his nose is all snotty but Ignis' shirt's a mess anyway so when the older man circles an arm around him, Pompto buries his head against his shoulder. He only tenses a little at the smell of old blood, the sensation of slow circles massaged into his back, and if he's too sad to notice the stiffness slowly eking out of Ignis’ posture he at least has the presence of mind to think, _Maybe he doesn’t hate me after all_.

“It’s not your fault,” Ignis tells him with quiet conviction, and Prompto cries all the harder because it is, and here’s the person who loved Noct best, forgiving him.

The dregs of the soup have long since cooled when Prompto calms down enough to feel embarrassed about his little outburst. He gives an ugly, rattling sniff, wipes his nose with the back of his sleeve and belatedly notices Ignis is holding out a handkerchief seemingly pulled from nowhere. Prompto hiccups a laugh, accepts the token (it smells like soap suds, that crisp, freshly laundered scent that Prompto associates with early morning and Noct’s pillow case) and cleans his face as best he can. When Ignis says he’ll take care of it, Prompto flushes in humiliation, feeling more and more like a dumbass, snot-nosed kid. “Hell to the N-O, man. Let me clean up my own mess at least.”

Ignis purses his lips like he’s secretly thinking Prompto’s never been near a washing machine in his life. _Can I blame him? He’s been looking after us ever since we started this dumb road trip. And back at the Citadel, back when we were still at school, he was practically Noct’s babysitter. Had to clean all his princely possessions._ Unbidden, he recalls that time he’d been looking for the second controller for one of Noct’s older consoles and inadvertently stumbled across Noct’s porn stash instead, concealed with all the half-assed gusto of a sleepy adolescent beneath a bunch of fishing magazines and a couple of empty soda cans. Prompto squirms a little as he starts thinking of all the personal stuff Ignis must’ve seen as Noct’s advisor-cum-nursemaid, the long hours spent in close proximity to sulky silences and small victories, from one teen angst-driven mood swing to the next. He didn’t think he’d ever heard the guy complain though, which meant he was either a brilliant liar or that he actually didn’t mind. _He… really knew Noct better than I ever did._

Mistaking the source of his discomfort, Ignis says, “Very well. Shall I fetch some painkillers instead?”

“I’m good,” Prompto squeaks. He coughs lightly, scrubs a hand over his head and grimaces when he’s met with prickly stubble rather than his favoured longer locks. “Hey, um, not to be greedy or anything but any chance there’s more of that soup? Promise I’ll take better care of it this time.”

Ignis nods and disappears for a moment. When he returns with another helping of the salty-smelling broth, he helps Prompto sit up, saying, “Considering your hands are still worse for wear, any task requiring fine motor skills will prove challenging. If you’ll allow me…”

Prompto’s not sure what he’s suggesting at first but it is true that his hands hurt like a bitch. Honestly, he doesn’t even like looking at them – the warped, poisoned veins stand out harsh on his snowy skin – so if Ignis can keep them out of sight, that’d be great, thanks. “Oh, okay.”

It takes some fumbling but eventually they work it so Ignis is on the bed half behind Prompto, cradling Prompto's head as he lifts the spoon to his mouth. Prompto privately thinks it would’ve been easier to just drink straight from the bowl but he suspects Ignis’ neatness plays some part in trying to make sure he doesn’t eat like a cretin. Prompto’s kind of a lost cause though, slurping unelegently between fretting over spilling soup on Ignis' blink-and-you’ll-miss-it shirt. Even without sight though Ignis is remarkably attentive and after Prompto overcomes the initial weirdness of somebody else feeding him he relaxes into the routine.

“Aren’t you cold?” Prompto asks suddenly. He’s leaning slightly into the older man, settling into his soothing presence.

“Not particularly. Why?”

If Prompto had Gladio’s breed of irreverence he’d make some crack about Ignis’ man titties being on display and tuck a couple of gil in Ignis’ pocket, waggling his eyebrows for extra effect. He figures Ignis won’t appreciate the joke though so he just says, “Your shirt’s pretty messed up.” He tries not to think about why Ignis hasn’t changed his clothes already but it’s impossible not to picture the guy slumped in the corner chair, straining to detect Prompto’s breathing. Impossible not to think of him aimlessly wandering from room to room, replaying old battles in his mind, speculating on whether Noct would still be alive if he’d just done _this_ differently or elected to follow _that_ strategy.

Ignis balances the bowl on his lap and feels along the fabric with the hand that’s not draped around Prompto. It’s almost comical, the way his ears turn faintly pink as he finds rip after rip after rip, and when he skims over his exposed nipple, a muscle jumps in his jaw. “Ah. Well, I’d best find more suitable attire. Only once you’re finished, of course.” Prompto can practically feel the _Please be finished_ hanging in the air and it occurs to him in all their camping escapades, he’s never actually seen Ignis in anything other than perfectly buttoned up suits or equally perfectly buttoned down silken pyjamas, the Crownsguard insignia sitting primly on his breast pocket. A crooked smile works its way onto Prompto’s lips. Ignis was the kind of guy who religiously brushed and flossed after every meal whereas Prompto was the guy who’d lose the tube of toothpaste in the toilet bowl, try to fish it out and wind up tripping and falling in.

“Knock yourself out, dude. I’m stuffed,” Prompto says.

The blush is creeping along Ignis’ neck now. He mutters something and positively _skittles_ out the door, and Prompto falls asleep thinking maybe they have more common ground than he’d first imagined.

There are no nightmares this time, hearty meal sitting low in his belly, and he sleeps the night through. Blessed peace however is fractured by a brass fanfare and:

_O, Glorious Niflheim!_

_Never ceasing, always march—_

The scream’s tearing out of Prompto’s throat even before he bolts upright and wildly casts his gaze around, shuddering hands searching for his gun. The MTs, they’re everywhere. Gods, what now? He gropes towards the Armiger, comes up empty. Shuffling as far away as possible until the headboard’s flush against him, Prompto squeezes his eyes shut. What more could they possibly take?

“Prompto!”

He flinches as fingers wrap around his wrists, braced for the impending blow. The voice says, “Prompto, are you hurt?” and this time it sweeps through the panic. When Prompto looks again, the cell and the MTs and the knives and the cross and the glinting yellow eyes are all gone. Instead there’s Ignis, bridled urgency writ in the way he’s poised for action and the strain of the too-small new shirt across his shoulders, a focused intensity that makes Prompto feel like the single most important person in the universe. It’s a strange sensation, not unpleasant but Prompto feels kind of weird being somebody’s top priority. “No, it’s— I just— I’m okay,” he responds, all aborted sentences and graceless wriggling.

Ignis is already tugging off a glove. “What happened? A nightmare? Fever?” He places the back of his hand against Prompto’s forehead. Despite the fact that they’d practically been cuddling before, that had been through a haze of emotion. This time, the physical contact is startling.

Prompto goes, “Um…” because is Ignis actually… panicking?

“You don’t appear to be running a temperature,” Ignis mutters half to himself, but he doesn’t immediately remove his hand almost as if he’s checking to make sure Prompto’s really there, all in one piece.

“It was just the song,” Prompto says, feeling dumber by the second. If he had the power of the Lucis bloodline he’d phase himself straight into the Armiger right about now.

“The song,” Ignis parrots, hands dropping to his sides. Then, “The Niflheim national anthem?”

Prompto nods, remembers Ignis can’t see him. “Yeah.” He’d prefer not to talk about it but if it’ll appease Ignis, well. “They used to play it every time I tried to catch some z’s. The only way to shut it off was to sing along.” Prompto shudders at the memory. He can still recall every damn word.

Ignis’ fingers twitch like he wants to punch something, like he should’ve miraculously guessed Prompto would have such an extreme reaction. “My apologies. I wouldn’t have left the radio within hearing had I known. Niflheim play their little fanfare before each broadcast, you see.”

On anyone else, the reaction would be dubbed mild. On Ignis though? The distress is palpable and Prompto’s suddenly swamped by guilt, well aware he doesn’t deserve the attention. Those eyebrows are angling down in such a severe V that Prompto’s sure if he doesn’t quit it, Ignis is gonna give himself a killer migraine so he touches his wrist and says, “It’s okay, Iggy. Honest.”

On instinct, Ignis glances down at where they’re connected, a slightly dazed look on his face. He exhales heavily, a little of the tension draining from his rigid features. “I’ll move the radio to the spare room where it won’t disturb you,” he says.

“Um,” Prompto doesn’t want to usurp the chain of command or anything but… “I don’t mind the noise. Actually, it’s kinda nice to have some company. Do you think we could just listen to some music or trashy talkback or something?”

Ignis says, “Certainly,” so quickly that Prompto wonders if he would’ve fetched one of those rare golden chocobos had Prompto asked. Guilt makes people do all sorts of crazy things.

When he returns, Ignis props the radio on the bedside table, drags over a chair and settles down to tune in some Lucian hits from the last decade, a dose of nostalgia bordering lethal that catapults Prompto to the schoolyard and the arcade and Noct’s apartment and makes him intermittently want to laugh or cry or maybe both. When the first strands of _that_ song vibrate through the air, the one that inspired Prompto and Noct to sneak out to that concert so many years ago, Prompto blurts, “Oh, oh, this one! This’s my absolute, numero uno, number one favourite!” His excitement quickly dissolves when he starts thinking of that night: clumsy touches and liquored breath and awkward adoration. The images might’ve brought on the waterworks again but from the corner of his eye he spies Ignis mouthing the words. Prompto’s mouth drops open. How on Eos does a refined guy like Ignis—?

Oh. Of course.

Coolly, Prompto observes, “Noct’s favourite too. Played it until my ears bled. He loved the bit where the drums kick in right before the chorus. Said it made him wanna get in the Regalia with me and drive and drive and drive until he forgot everything except the smell of the open road.”

“And at some unholy hour I’d receive a call requesting I retrieve the pair of you from the other end of the continent because you ran out of fuel, no doubt.”

“Heh. Where’s the lie?” The thought makes Prompto’s heart swell and when he glances at Ignis, he’s pleased to see his own wistful smile reflected on the older man’s face. In recent memory it’s the first time he’s looked anything bordering happy, maybe a five out of ten, and Prompto finds he doesn’t want it to fade. He goads, “So tell me honestly, were we more endearing or enraging?”

“Myriad late night phone calls, the trial of getting either of you to complete your math problems, being asked to partake in a festival where I was forced to wear scandalous clothing then watch my ward plummet headfirst from an obscene height into a _haystack?_ ” A pause, long enough for Prompto to start regretting he’d forced Ignis to dredge that stuff up, then Ignis’ smile graduates to a ten as he confesses, “I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

Prompto gulps, overwhelmed with a sudden rush of gratitude for this man who would’ve had Noct’s back through the very fires of hell. It suddenly becomes very important that Ignis knows exactly how much he meant to the prince. “Noct really did trust you, you know. Like, he’d never let _me_ see his dirty laundry.”

Ignis chuckles. “Perhaps not literally. Figuratively however I believe you were his closest confidant.”

Prompto fiddles with the cuffs of his PJs. “Yeah? I dunno. Noct never told me anything important, just regular crap. All the king stuff was off-limits.”

Ignis leans over and flicks the radio off. “He didn’t want to think about it. It was hard enough watching his father wither away but knowing that was his fate too? A heavy burden for His Highness to bear. You could make him forget about his duty, even if just for a short while, whereas I,” Ignis sighs, “I did little else but remind him of it.” He sounds regretful and Prompto gets the sense this is something Ignis has considered countless times, bitterness and frustration fizzling out over the years all underscored by a strange nuance Prompto can’t quite place. For his part though he’s too absorbed by Ignis’ implication that Prompto was little more than a distraction for Noct, and he has to actively remind himself of how he’d known all along that one day the prince would ditch the pauper, that whatever they shared was bound to vanish the moment Noct put on his penguin suit and said _I do_. It shouldn’t hurt but by the Astrals, it does.

“If I had to pick one person to be his lifelong companion, I’d choose you every time, Prompto.”

The waves crash loudly in the silence that follows; Prompto stares for what feels like a good ten minutes, turning the words over like he’s looking for cracks in his phone screen after dropping it for the gazillionth time. He can’t find any trace of mockery though, only a sombre honesty that makes the spot behind his rib cage feel too tiny and in the face of such devastating truth all he can offer is a subdued, “Woah. Talk about high praise.”

Ignis adjusts his glasses. “Come now, it’s nothing you don’t deserve.”

For some reason, the business-like way Ignis talks makes Prompto believe it.

* * *

They fall into a companionable coexistence. His superficial wounds begin to heal but although it’s gradually fading, the miasma also slowly creeps along Prompto’s bloodstream, travelling further up his arms. It keeps him unresponsive to healing potions, renders him breathless from just getting up to go pee, but Prompto doesn’t want to burden Ignis with the knowledge. When the darkness reaches his heart… Well, it’s not like they can do anything about it.

When Ignis isn’t feeding Prompto, he’s treating his wounds or stoking the fire or cooking a fresh batch of soup or keeping an ear out for Gladio, exhaustion always ghosting his features as if he never sleeps. Often, he quells Prompto’s fears in the wake of vivid nightmares, which occur more frequently than Prompto cares to admit although at least he doesn’t go lurching for the nearest makeshift weapon anymore. Sometimes, he helps Prompto trek a lap of their accommodation though this makes Prompto wanna sleep for the rest of the day. (Ignis also makes a crack about the blind leading the crippled, which has them both giggling then laughing then outright wheezing on the kitchen floor, two wounded men who can do little else but see the absurd side to their situation. “That was a low blow, Igster,” Prompto gasps, privately vowing to catch the guy off guard with an even less PC pun before the day’s out.)  
  
Ignis bathes Prompto too, meaning Prompto’s gotta learn to astral project himself to the other side of the galaxy before he dies of embarrassment even though Ignis assures him he can’t see beyond dim outlines, a vague impression of light versus dark. At first, the only reason Prompto capitulates is because he feels bad about all the trouble Ignis takes in laying out a lifetime supply of soaps and shampoos and healing salves and clean gauze. It’s definitely overkill, Prompto thinks, Ignis’ hands working through Prompto’s scalp stubble. Definitely, but even if he doubts he’ll ever get completely used to being nude near another dude, the incredible massages at least put a cork in his complaining.

Recovery’s a process that drags worse than a Friday afternoon clock watching in Chemistry. Prompto spends his days staring out the window at the tumbling sea birds or perusing novels on Ignis’ recommendations (almost every single title Prompto recites, Ignis has read) or listening to whatever’s on the radio. His hair’s growing out again and his hands are slowly healing, enough that he can probably feed himself but frankly he’s kinda enjoying being looked after. Judging from the willingness with which he falls into the caretaker role, the routine’s equally soothing for Ignis, whose nature demands he has utility, whose disdain for being a burden weighs just as heavy, Prompto suspects, as his own. True, Prompto’s never gonna be the smartest guy in the room but he prides himself on his emotional intelligence. With nothing much else to occupy his time, it doesn’t take long before he’s piecing Ignis together.

There’s a strange kind of ebb-and-flow effect when it comes to Ignis, who seems to both crave and dread being alone with Prompto. At first Prompto thinks maybe it’s to do with the whole born-in-Niflheim gig but Ignis had seemed genuinely unbothered by that so Prompto pushes past his own insecurities and observes from a different angle. Next, he thinks maybe he’s just too hard to hang around now that he’s so utterly different from the plucky fledgling he’d been at the beginning of this whole roadtrip fiasco. This theory is marginally more satisfying but he still thinks there’s more to the puzzle.

The answer comes when Ignis is wiping antiseptic on Prompto’s numerous wounds. He’s been dutifully cleaning them twice a day and Prompto honestly can’t imagine having to baby somebody to this degree. Jokingly, he makes the flyaway comment: “Don’t know how you did this for a living.”

Ignis barely pauses in his ministrations but Prompto doesn’t miss the way his throat bobs. An inscrutable smile plays on his lips. “I didn’t mind,” he says quietly like he’s holding something fragile and precious.

That’s when it pummels Prompto with the force of a garula stampede.

Countless times, Ignis must’ve done this for Noct. Fed him, sheltered him, calmed and warmed him. Of course it hurts, taking care of his ward’s best friend (once off lover? Prompto still isn’t sure if Ignis knows). Noct’s probably behind every freshly laundered towel and suspiciously visibly vegetable-free pot of soup.

“Is everything alright?” Ignis, straight to the point, bundling away the medical equipment.

“Yeah, it’s just…” Prompto can’t exactly come out and ask if he’s a good Noct substitute so instead he blurts the first thing that pops into his head, “I’ve been having a rough time getting to sleep. Do you reckon you can, like, regale me with some Lucian history or something?”

Ignis chuckles. “You’re not meant to fall asleep during a lecture.”

The rich sound brings heat to Prompto’s cheeks. How is it that he always manages to act like a state of the art doofus in front of Ignis? At least there’s no edge to the rebuke. “Eheheheh. Right, my bad.”

“I didn’t say no,” Ignis replies, voice curling indulgently around the words in a way that makes Prompto beam. _I could seriously listen to him all day._ “Now, would you like to hear about Queen Inlustris, whose shield was said to blind her enemies with reflected starlight, or perhaps King Carnifex who took down a behemoth with nothing but a stiletto?”

Prompto’s brain boggles. “As in a _shoe?”_

Ignis laughs; Prompto’s heart flutters. “As in a long, slender blade intended for stabbing rather than cutting, although a pair of high heels would make for some interesting Royal Arms.”

The image of Noct strutting around in a pair of red heels is pure gold. Now it’s Prompto’s turn to snicker. The embarrassment, he thinks, is definitely worth it. He listens, enraptured by the low rumble of Ignis’ calming voice, which makes him think of summer nights around the campfire or long drives along winding coastal roads. At some point after the sun sinks over the horizon, it gets cold enough that he convinces Ignis to share some of that uncanny heat his body always exudes and they wind up squeezed together in the narrow bed.

It’s past midnight by the time Ignis’ words trail off, head dipping towards his chest as he finally, finally falls asleep. Gently, Prompto reaches up and removes his glasses, marvelling at how he looks so much younger without them, skin smooth aside from the scars. Strike that. He looks _his age_. He acts so put-together that it’s easy to forget that underneath that acerbic wit he’s only a handful of years older than Prompto. Easy to forget that he has a fully maxed mage in _King’s Knight_ and likes singing along to the Hottest 100 while he cooks and used to sneak out of the Citadel to watch meteor showers with Noct from ground level, happy to be just another couple amongst the joyous Insomnian throng.

Prompto smiles a little lopsidedly and murmurs, “For whatever it’s worth, you’d be my first choice for him too, Iggy.”


	3. Actirasty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get sad but also heated. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

It’s funny how Prompto unconsciously learns all Ignis’ habits. Not like the compulsive pushing-glasses-up-the-nose thing to cover his feelings (Prompto learned that one within the first day on the road, Ignis stressing about finding the right cloth for Noct’s wedding suit.) No, it’s the subtle stuff he’s picking up now. How he slinks outside every single morning while it’s still dark and finds a secluded spot to wait for dawnbreak. The way his nostrils flare after he nails balancing a dish’s spices. How his tongue darts out to worry the nick in his lip as he’s considering a particularly vexing problem. The systematic way he lays the table, cutlery all precisely ordered, probably a habit from formal dining settings back at the Citadel. The split second amalgamation of wince and smile that spasms over his face whenever Prompto says something a little too much like Noct would. Prompto hates hurting him, careless turns of phrase like twisting in a dagger between the ribs, but he can’t help that he and his best friend traded slang like the most natural thing in the world, in-jokes and code words and secrets never shared outside their tiny bubble built for two.

So he thinks he’s got Ignis pretty down pat until the moment he bursts into the bedroom and declares, “I’d like you to see something,” with a kind of self-assured relish that has Prompto readily agreeing.

“Something” turns out to be overgrown and messy and weed-riddled and perfect _._ Prompto catches glimpses of red and blue amongst the lines of leafy plants, tell-tale tufts peeking out of a particular row. An excited, "Oooh," bubbles out as he pulls Ignis along by the cuff of his jacket and crouches at the edge of the garden, wincing a little at the creaky protestations of his knees. He’s mostly okay but the blackness has creeped to his biceps now, maybe fading a little. It has him gulping for air if he exerts himself too much.

"If I recall, you requested your next meal contain vegetables that are actually visible," Ignis comments lightly. 

A sheepish grin. “Well, yeah, there’s only so much broth a bro can take.” He pushes his hair out of his eyes, which are shining in anticipation as he absorbs all the fresh food just waiting to be plucked and, unable to contain himself, he grabs one. A solid yank. The pointy orange trophy he's rewarded with makes him grin up at his companion and cheer, "Aww yeah! Carrots, baby!"

Ignis rolls up his sleeves to solemnly accept the carrot. He brushes off the worst of the dirt, breaks it in two, sniffs then takes a curious bite, all the while Prompto grinning like a loon because it's just so damn good to see Ignis back in his element. His cooking’s always palatable but Prompto could tell he hadn’t exactly been putting his heart into it lately, content to utilise whatever he could dig out of the pantry. The hope that fresh ingredients would perk him up is now paying off. Prompto tries not to look too smug about it.

Ignis chews thoughtfully. It’s fascinating, the way he catalogs the flavour and texture and whatever else geniuses do when confronted with the exotic. _Maybe he's trying to puzzle out what herbs to mix it with_ , Prompto muses as he absently brushes a fleck of dirt off the corner of Ignis' mouth.

Ignis pauses. The blonde holds his breath as he waits for a grand total of seven seconds before he bounces impatiently. "Well," Prompto prods, "is it any good or are you gonna need a stomach pump?"

Ignis clears his throat. "It's less sweet than the Caem variety but as a stew ingredient it should suffice.” Something in his voice sounds a little off but Prompto figures he's just gone into his cooking maestro mind palace or something. 

“Alright! It’s harvest time!”   
  
Under Ignis’ guidance, they tidy up the veggie patch and Prompto manages to pick some stuff that probably won’t kill them then they bundle into the kitchen, arms brimming with enough tomatoes and carrots and leeks to cover the small benchtop. Ignis cranks up the radio, which he only does when he’s in a particularly chipper mood, while Prompto washes their bounty and together they cook up a variation of meat-and-beet bouillon. The heady, homely aroma of acidic tomatoes, caramelised leeks and buttery potatoes ringed in plumes of sage and basil has Prompto salivating and when they’re finally seated with a steaming dish beckoning them, the blonde only just contains himself enough to thank Ignis before he digs in.

“This’s heavenly!” he exalts around a massive mouthful of divine goodness.

“I’ll assume you said something positive beneath all that chomping,” Ignis quips as he neatly skewers a chunk of potato. Prompto watches him take his first bite. The low noise of appreciation Ignis emits goes straight to Prompto’s belly. Privately, he thinks Noct was a class A idiot, wasting all that time shunning shallots and banishing broccoli, and Prompto decides to make up for Noct's ungratefulness by devouring it all. The flavours are dancing on his tongue, the bowl seemingly illuminated like the clouds have parted and a host of angelic beings are chorusing down. “I have ascended,” he chirps. “This is nirvana. I am one with the universe and the universe is one with me. Seriously, man, you are a culinary king.”

Ignis’ mouth quirks. “I can’t take all the credit. My sous chef himself is rather talented. How he kept his skills secret for so long is beyond me.”

The praise has Prompto positively glowing. “Just call me the dark chocobo of fine dining.” He pops another potato into his mouth and munches away contently. “On second thought, that’s stretching the truth. I’m more a rustic kind of guy.”

“Self-taught?”

“Yeah. Growing up, my folks weren’t around much so I had to learn to fend for myself. There’s a big difference between doing something because you like it though and doing it because you don’t want to keel over from low blood sugar.” He glances across the table and notices that Ignis has pursed his lips again in veiled disapproval. While Prompto’s touched that he’d care, he doesn’t want to discuss his parents. It wasn’t their fault their jobs required stupid amounts of travelling. He flips the conversation back to the other man, “You must be pretty passionate about it.”

Ignis pushes a carrot around his bowl, an echo of Noct that makes Prompto’s heart truly ache, before admitting, "To be frank, I might never have taken it up again if not for you. Cooking never actually appealed to me.” He smiles at Prompto’s scandalised intake of breath. “Someone had to get His Highness to eat a balanced diet though. Given everyone else was loath to engage in that particular battle, I took it upon myself."

Prompto gets the distinct impression Ignis does lots of things only because nobody else will. He tries not to think about it too hard, instead aiming for light-hearted when he says, “Now that’s gotta be the hardest job in the universe. You know how many times Noct dumped his leftovers on my plate just because they were ‘hellspawn of Eos’? His words, not mine. Going out for a meal with that guy was hella embarrassing. Bet he wasn’t saying thanks when you piled his plate with parsnips.”

Ignis shrugs. “Even if His Royal Fussiness never vocalised it, I know he appreciated the effort.”

And that’s when it happens. It hits Prompto like a divine bolt from Ramuh himself, flippant comments and _Not your type?_ and a half-recalled argument between Ignis and Gladio the first day Prompto came to. He wonders how the hell he never noticed. Before he can think better of it, he’s blurting, “You really liked him, huh?”

To his credit, the spoon doesn’t stutter before Ignis’ mouth, just plunges in like diving into battle. Prompto doesn’t know what made him say it except intuition says he’s bang on the gil. He knows because he knows what it’s like to pine for a prince you can never have, how it feels to be friends with a messy, awkward, lonely guy who’s just trying to grow into a man his dad can be proud of, all in the public’s eye. And because he’s unabashed about his feelings for Noct, Prompto’s able to study Ignis, who’s chomping away like he’s buying time. No way out of this though, not when Prompto’s asked him point blank.

Ignis makes a good go of it though. “As much as the royal prince’s trusted advisor could like him.”

Prompto smiles sadly. “…You ever gonna say his name?”

That does it. Ignis blanches, clearly shocked at having been caught out. A hundred warring emotions flicker across his visage – Prompto’s surprised he can read them all – but eventually he settles on a wry nanosmile. “Well. Small point hiding it then.” He tilts his head at Prompto, hesitant. “You’re displeased?”

“Nope. It’s not like I had a monopoly on the guy.” _Ah crap, now I’ve really given myself away._ Fair’s fair though, and he ploughs ahead valiantly, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to make things uncomfortable between us.”

“Not to me.”

Ignis frowns. “Confess to the Crown Prince that I had feelings for him thereby jeopardising our master-servant relationship and paving the way to be cast aside if the King ever caught wind of my lower inclinations?” he scoffs. It’s an ugly sound. "Whatever I felt was inappropriate. When it became apparent he was spending every free second with you, I realised it was unreciprocated too.”

Prompto utters a disbelieving laugh. “So that’s it then? You kept a lid on it all these years because you thought he loved _me?”_

“Didn’t he?”

Noct’s glowing gaze and shy laugh and bright grin and cool skin crackling with magic all flash behind Prompto’s eyes. What was Noct thinking when he pulled on Prompto’s hand and tumbled them into bed? Was he thinking anything or was he alcohol-fuddled to the point where Prompto could’ve been any random blonde? If the situation was different, would Noct have been groaning Ignis’ name instead? Prompto presses his thumb and index finger to his eyes, trying to dispel the flurrying feelings. This guessing game’s seriously doing his head in.

“I don’t know,” he says truthfully.

A puff of air leaves Ignis’ mouth and when he gathers up the empty bowls, his movements are a little jerky. Prompto tries not to squirm under the obvious dissatisfaction. He’s being as honest as he can and if his answer hasn’t appeased the advisor, he doesn’t know what more he can do.

Anyway, Noct’s dead and gone. Whatever he thought doesn’t matter.

* * *

By all rights, things should be awkward after their twin confessions. Aside from an initial hesitancy though Prompto instead finds barriers falling down he hadn’t even realised existed. They talk a lot, like they’re hungry to learn every snippet of trivia about one another, like Ignis actually doesn’t hate the way Prompto rambles about random crap, and Prompto’s so grateful he’s no longer subjected to silences that stretch like a Costlemark flan. Noct's absence is now less a constant gnaw, more a brain freeze: Prompto can be weeding the veggie patch or tinkering with the generator and suddenly it hits him: holy crap, Noct's _gone_. It hurts more than anything Ardyn did. Nearly each discussion he and Ignis share revolves around Noct or circles back to him. Even absent, Noctis is their star and they are helpless planetary bodies drawn into his orbit.

The difference comes in the mundane moments, Ignis up to his elbows in soap suds, humming to himself as he scrubs their dinner plates clean. Prompto’s not immune to Ignis’ charms – even nose-deep in his Noct crush he’d recognised that Ignis was the most debonair dude this side of Eos – and if Prompto starts laughing a little louder at every good-natured, long-suffering snipe or letting his hands loiter in Ignis’ freshly trimmed hair, nobody else is around to notice anyway.

(Side note: not that he’s happy about Ignis’ blindness but praise the Astrals that he at least can’t see the disastrous results of that particular encounter. If he ever found out Prompto had managed to make him look like a rabies-riddled chocobo, he’d serve Prompto up for dinner.)

Some things remain constant though. Like clockwork, Ignis heads outside while it’s still dark and walks along the cliffs to await dawn. How he does it, Prompto’s not sure – the nights are stretching longer and longer until sunrise is unpredictable. More often than not, Prompto bears witness to him departing like some monk on a holy pilgrimage, tapping out his pathway towards that horizon. At first Prompto’s concerned but he respects the need. He knows Ignis misses Noct fiercely and if waiting for daybreak brings him any kind of peace, Prompto’s not going to interrupt him.

That is, until one morning when his eyes slide open to find Ignis’ cane leaning across the chair.  
  
_Not like him to forget. Guess I’d better make a special delivery._

Prompto snatches it up with his least mangled hand and hobbles outside, scanning the clifftops for a tall silhouette, squinting into the first beams of daylight. _Where is he?_ Prompto wonders, shaking as a gust of wind cuts through his worn pyjamas, trying not to worry. Easier said than done. An image of Ignis toppling off the clifftop into the hungry sea dances across his mind. _Shit._ He should stick out on the barren expanse but there’s nobody around as far as Prompto can see. Fear clutches at his chest as his gaze whips from side to side.  _Don’t panic._ Also easier said than done. A horrible series of deductions unfolds, turning Prompto’s breaths shallow. What if Ignis hadn’t forgotten the cane at all? What if now that Prompto was well enough to take care of himself, Ignis had decided to leave him alone? _Just like my parents. Just like Noct._

What if Ignis meant to go waltzing along dangerous clifftops unaided and damn the consequences?

The thought’s paralysing. Prompto’s heart rattles away like a caged creature, fearing the absolute worst. No way in hell can he lose Ignis too. _Don’t catastrophise, moron! Just pick a direction and fucking go!_

He pursues the sun, startling a flock of birds in his haste, stumbling over loose rocks and scraggly coastal plants that snag at his pyjama bottoms. The sun bleeds into the ocean. It’s the longest minute of his life, Prompto trying to calculate whether or not a fall from this high could kill a guy, before he finally reaches the edge, heart lodged in his throat. When he peers down, the sight that greets him steals his breath from his lungs.

Ignis. He’s clad in trousers and a tank top, standing on a rocky outcropping at the shoreline, close enough that each crash of waves sends saltwater spraying over him. His arms are outstretched like he’s soaking up the sun’s rays. If he still had his camera, Prompto would’ve taken a few snapshots – the lighting’s great, and he could probably get some bokeh off the waves, and Ignis cuts a nice silhouette ringed in light – but right now he’s just relieved his runaway’s all in one piece.

Relieved... and pissed. 

Prompto’s immediate thought is, _Thank gods,_ followed by, _Where the hell’s his shirt?_ followed by, _How the hell’d he even get down there?_ Further inspection reveals narrow steps cut into the rock face zigzagging all the way to sea level. Prompto grits his teeth as he considers the miracle that is a blind man managing to navigate something more treacherous than the worst trails at the Disc of Cauthess. He has a sneaking suspicion Ignis did this as some kind of training (he’s determined he won’t have to depend on the cane forever) and as Prompto picks his way down, knees knocking the entire time, his anger grows. _It’s not fair,_ he fumes. After being degraded by a deranged sadist, after persevering and persevering when he just wanted to give up, after dragging himself through hell and back, after _surviving_... seeing Ignis treat his life so flippantly is rage-inducing. It's like having all Prompto's hard work sneered at and carelessly thrown back in his face. He can clearly see Ignis waiting there, hand outstretched towards the rising sun like he’s reaching for something, probably the marbles he lost when he decided to come down here all on his own.

“You!” He aims for accusatory but the effect’s ruined when he trips down the last few steps past Ignis’ neatly folded shirt and jacket, which turns his heated bellow into a pathetic yelp, the cane cluttering onto the uneven ground.

Ignis swivels, mouth falling open in a startled O just as Prompto reaches him. He looks blurry through the tears misting Prompto’s vision, an unreality struck golden by the light shimmering off the ceaseless sea. Fervently, Prompto wants to grab him by the front of his tank and shake some sense into him. Barring that, he draws back his fist and gives him a solid whack to the jaw. Prompto hisses at the jolt of pain; Ignis staggers a few steps under the sheer unexpectedness of the blow but he can’t fall because Prompto’s wrapped him in a vice-like hug.

Waves crash around them. A seabird screeches overhead. The lonely sound coupled with the unnatural chill of Ignis’ bare arms beneath his palms makes the blonde feel like they’re drifting, a million miles away and counting. How long has Ignis been out here, body temperature plummeting quicker than a Lucian king’s warp strike?

“Don’t you dare do that again,” Prompto whispers, voice low and serrated. “You wanna get yourself killed?” He feels the tremor that runs along Ignis’ arms, trapped at his sides by Prompto’s relentless embrace.

“Prompto…”

_“Do you?”_

A sigh. “Of course not.”

He’s not sure he believes him. Prompto pushes Ignis away, collapses onto the jagged, seaweed-strewn rocks. “Shit.” He scrubs at his face, trying to get his emotions under control. Ignis flops down heavily beside him, their shoulders not quite touching. He rubs his cheek and says, “Always knew Gladio was a bad influence on you,” but Prompto doesn’t laugh at the weak joke.

Through shaky breaths, he says, “You’re the only one I have left, Iggy. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I…” Ignis won’t face him and Prompto’s surprised to realise the guy’s actually ashamed. “There was no need for concern. I’ve been coming out here to experience the dawn. Feeling the sunlight on my skin is… soothing.” Prompto gathered that. He opens his mouth to deliver a few more choice words but Ignis continues, “And to try summoning my daggers.”

 _“Here?”_ he says incredulously. His mouth opens, shuts. He scowls at the cliffs and huffs, “Did it have to be _here_ here?”

“This is the south-westernmost point of Lucis. The closest to him.”

The implication finally sinks in. Stunned, Prompto splutters, “Wait, you think Noct’s alive?”

The weight of an adamantoise is behind Ignis’ sigh. “I don’t know,” he says plaintively and Prompto can see with perfect clarity that it’s the not knowing that’s killing him. It makes sense that he’d try to reach Noct though. His affinity to the Crystal’s magic – no, to Noct’s magic – has always been stronger than anyone else’s. Prompto supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. After all, nobody believed in Noct the way Ignis did: with the absolute certainty reserved for laws of the universe like gravity or inertia. Nobody loved Noct the way Ignis did: with the intensity of a dying star, a supernova stretched to infinity. How quickly we forget. Prompto had known that before and he knew it now, watching the unabashed grief playing across Ignis’ face.

They’ve never really discussed Noct’s demise. Prompto figures now’s as good a time as any. “Are you sure he’s… I mean, what exactly happened to him?” He shuffles a little until their sides are touching, willing his body heat to seep into Ignis’ icy skin. He’s normally so warm. The temperature differential now makes Prompto bite his lip.

“He reached the Crystal but he wasn’t deemed worthy, I suppose. The literature’s quite vague on the prophecies of the King of Light. As far as I could tell though the Crystal devoured him whole, potentially to bolster its own strength in the face of the impending night.” His expression darkens. “Chancellor Izunia looked quite pleased with the outcome.”

Prompto’s skin crawls. “That creep.”

Ignis snorts. “That’s putting it mildly.”

Prompto’s face softens. _Noct…_ He scans the distance where red is leeching into blue like the aftermath of war. It's kind of pathetic how quickly he latches onto the hope. Probably not healthy either, but Prompto's always had more heart than sense. He says, "So maybe he is out there. What do we do?”

The wind slicing through them makes Ignis press closer to Prompto. “Well, we can’t exactly camp out in Gralea. I suppose we focus on our recovery then defend the realm until Noct’s return. Trusting in him is our only option.”

Prompto lays his head on Ignis’ shoulder. He smells like saltwater with an undertone of cardamom, the aromas of last night’s curry still clinging to his skin. “Blind faith, huh?” (Ignis chuckles.) “Sounds like a lousy plan. And here I was, thinking they paid you for your pearls of wisdom.”

“I’m waiting to hear your better idea,” Ignis murmurs, breath tickling the shell of Prompto’s ear, making Prompto’s skin tingle.

“Well… somebody’s gotta warn Noct he’s been getting second rate advice all this time.” Prompto nudges Ignis good-naturedly as the sun finally breaks over the ocean. “So can we get a refund or trade you in for a better model or something?”

“Afraid not. I’m something of a limited edition. One of a kind, mint condition.”

Prompto’s laughter rockets across the seas to join the birds wheeling and soaring across the sky. “C’mon, Mr Collector’s Edition, let’s get you inside before we have to downgrade you to used. And for the love of all things holy, put on some clothes.”

“Yes, sir.”

Prompto ignores the tiny thrill at those words and tosses Ignis’ clothes at him, grinning at the look of pure surprise that crosses the guy’s face when he ends up with a mouthful of cotton.

Arms looped around each other, they stumble home.

* * *

Whorls and blemishes and notches lay scattered across the wooden ceiling. They’re difficult to make out in the dark but Prompto knows them all intimately because he’s been staring all through sundown, sleep eluding him with a deftness akin to Noct phasing through bullets. At some point he switches on the lamp and peruses the romance he’d rooted out of the bookcase but the words are skipping across his vision, letting his mind wander. To Gladio, halfway across the continent, fending off daemons and wild animals just by glaring them down. To Noct, hopefully no longer burdened and undoing at the seams, a king in Prompto’s heart even if he never sat the throne.

To Ignis.

He owes him so much, more than he’ll ever be able to repay. Prompto’s tried to make it up by keeping the veggie patch pristine, entertaining him with dumb stories and undertaking too many chores until he practically sees stars from tiredness but none of it’s adequate. He’s thanked him, countless times, but each expression of gratitude is politely demurred and Prompto doesn’t know how else to go about compensating the guy.

And… and he feels pretty rotten about Ignis and Noct. Or, more specifically, the lack of Ignis and Noct. Or, _more_ more specifically, the fact that he’s to blame.

Prompto huffs, blowing hair out of his eyes, _Why’s he gotta be so self-sacrificing?_ His bangs fall back over his face and he gives an annoyed grunt, pushes them away. _Kinda like somebody else I know._ The comparison doesn’t mollify him, instead leaving him wondering if things would’ve been different if he’d never agreed to help Noct shake off the Citadel in favour of seeing that band. If he’d turned down Noct’s wedding invitation. If Ignis had known the true extent of Noct and Prompto’s… whatever it was.

He supposes that relationship was no more complicated than whatever he shares with Ignis now.

Maybe some fresh air will clear his mind. Bare feet slide along the creaky floorboards as Prompto sneaks past Ignis’ bedroom, buckling his holster on the way, but before he can jacket up and slip outside the crackle of flames draws him back. Lately, the nights have been colder so he should probably chuck some logs in the fireplace first. When he reaches the threshold of the living area, the sight that greets him bolts him to the spot.

Ignis has pulled up a chair close to the fire, one leg primly crossed over the other. The ripped up shirt he’d worn into Gralea is draped across his knee, a needle and thread clasped between slender digits darting through the fabric with practised ease, and Prompto wonders why he’s elected this moment to try mending it. He’s wearing the skull necklace he always sports and a pair of trousers but nothing else and Prompto’s gaze falls on the guy’s naked feet, of all things, because for some reason the lack of perfectly polished shoes makes Ignis look more vulnerable than anything else.

Prompto’s mouth turns dry. _I should go,_ he thinks but he doesn’t leave.

Ignis continues sewing. Prompto doesn’t really want to disturb him but something makes him take a deep breath and step over the threshold. “Knock knock,” he says.

Ignis looks up. Smiles. “Hello. Did I wake you?”

In the hush of night, his voice sounds even deeper. _Oh my god, end me now,_ Prompto thinks, stomach swooping. He swallows around the lump that’s suddenly sprouted in his throat. “Nah. Can’t sleep.”

A tilt of the head. “Care to draw up a chair?”

He’s pretty sure that would be a Very Bad Idea. “Actually, I was gonna go for a midnight stroll.” On a whim – or because he doesn’t really want to be alone – he adds, “Wanna come with?”

“As romantic as the suggestion is, I’d best finish this. Take care, and try not to stray from the lighthouse’s range. You’re armed, yes?”

Prompto pats his weapon, ignoring the heat that’s inching up his chest and along his neck. “You know it.” Whoever had owned this place had been something of an eccentric: Prompto had uncovered a stash of ammunition inside the wardrobe in the third bedroom, some of which fit his Quicksilver to a T, along with a very specific magazine collection (and who knew that getting aroused about falling down stairs was an actual thing? Clearly Prompto had missed his calling.)

Ignis nods, goes back to mending the damage. Prompto stands transfixed for a second before he shakes his head, turns. As he’s passing through the doorway though his footfalls slow then cease altogether, the magnetic pull undeniable now. His hand rests against the frame, and Prompto stares at the ground, worrying his lip as he considers. Walking away would be easy. If it was anyone else behind him, maybe Prompto would, but Ignis deserves to hear the whole story. A deep breath then Prompto embraces the strange determination welling up inside his chest, clenches his fists and spins around, approaching Ignis with quick strides. Before he can change his mind, he’s spilling his guts.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t know."

Ignis turns to him, and Prompto can feel the weight of his phantom gaze heavy around his shoulders. He goes on bravely. “Noct… never explained how he felt about me. Hell, he never even told me he was top of his class. It’s kinda funny, right, how he could face down a hoard of daemons but the idea of telling somebody he cared made him leap on the nearest train to Nopeville.” Prompto gulps back emotion, hating that he has to speak about Noct in the past tense. “I never really knew if he liked me or _like_ liked me. We only… He only…” Ugh, why was this so _hard?_ “The only time I ever touched him was under like twenty bottles of beer and the next morning he rolled over, threw up in my new trainers and called you to come pick him up!” He kneels before the older man in a subconscious gesture of supplication even though there’s nothing to be sorry about. Rationally, Prompto knows he’s not responsible for Ignis choosing to stay silent, but common sense is a whisper in the face of the crushing guilt.

Ignis is quiet for a long time. Then, “That does sound like our Prince Charmless.”

Prompto laughs, a little sadly and Ignis sets aside his sewing in favour of tracing a hand through the blonde’s hair. A sigh escapes Prompto’s lips. The ghost of something grows large in the quiet room underneath Ignis’ ministrations. Prompto thinks he’d be content just to stay like this forever.

Ignis murmurs, “I must admit, I’m jealous even of that. I can’t imagine what it would be like to have Noct touch me with anything more than fraternal love.”

Prompto lifts his gaze. Cast in the light of flames, Ignis looks so soft. Too soft maybe, because Prompto can’t help it. Heartstrings unravelling, he reaches up and lays his palm over Ignis’ cheek. Infinitesimally, the older man leans into the touch, lets a tremulous exhalation skim over Prompto’s skin. Goosebumps immediately rise along Prompto’s arms despite the heat radiating from the fireplace and he shudders as he slowly brushes his fingertips along Ignis’ jawline. For fear of breaking the spell, the next words to leave Prompto’s mouth are hushed, reverent. “This is how he touched me. Back then.”

Ignis’ lips part but Prompto’s had enough of talking. With a boldness he’s never felt before, he surges up and kisses him.

And Ignis freezes.

Two words flash bright as neon in Prompto’s brain:

_Oh crap._

He squeezes his eyes shut because literally nothing could be worse than seeing rejection plastered on Ignis’ face. He backpedals, figuring he’ll catapult himself into space or go native or spontaneously combust or something, _anything_ to get out of this completely mortifying mess.

But then. Then Ignis is kissing him back.

Ignis’ hands twine through Prompto’s hair, drawing him closer with a desperation Prompto definitely hadn’t been anticipating, shirt and needle and thread all falling to the floor. Prompto emits a small, surprised _oof_ before allowing himself to be maneuvered until their legs are pressed resolutely together. His hands drift down Ignis’ neck and across his shoulders, marvelling at the warmth ebbing off his skin to rival the Infernian.

This could be a contender for Worst Idea Ever. Like, maybe even worse than that time Prompto dropped half his allowance on prime regalite to boost his _King’s Knight_ characters because he didn’t want to ruin his budding friendship with Noct by admitting he was a poor pleb. The concern’s obliterated by Ignis pushing his hands beneath Prompto’s top, reminding Prompto of exactly how much he _doesn’t_ want to think. Instead, he lets his reservations melt away, tongue darting out like picking pockets. Ignis responds by digging his fingernails into Prompto’s shoulder blades, pressure just the right side of painful that sends a spark of pleasure straight to the blonde’s groin, and he deepens the kiss because fuck it.

Ignis yields to him; Prompto’s head spins, trying to concentrate on how Noct would’ve made this good for his oldest friend. He’s pretty much useless under Ignis’ lithe hands though. It doesn’t take long before Prompto’s practically mewling with want, dick thickening beneath his ridiculous chocobo print PJs. Ignis fumbles – actually fumbles – with Prompto’s buttons before shoving the top clean off the blonde’s shoulders in the same way he might discard a ruined batch of cookies: without preamble, like they’re not worth a second thought, like their very existence is an affront to Ignis’ sensibilities. Prompto’s cheeks flame because sure, he’s been shirtless around Ignis but definitely not under these circumstances. Before the shyness can really kick in though Ignis hooks his thumbs beneath Prompto’s waistband and tugs him into his lap. The creak of the chair under their combined weight rings loudly in Prompto’s ears.

 _Ohmygod_ , Prompto mentally squeaks, the new position making it extremely obvious how much Ignis wants this too, and Prompto has to stifle a whimper, trying his best not to ruin the illusion for the older man. The metal of the necklace is superheated from being in close proximity to the fire and it burns Prompto’s chest but he’s not about to ask him to remove it. For his part Ignis breaks away to trail a succession of kisses downwards, hands thoroughly exploring Prompto’s chest because of course this is the only way Ignis can see him. Ignis’ tongue flattens against the freckled spot between Prompto’s shoulder and neck, making the blonde squirm. He’s not giving much consideration to exactly what he’s wriggling against, and his honest reaction coaxes a low moan from the back of Ignis’ throat. _Oh my **god** , _Prompto thinks dizzily, worrying he’s gonna lose it just from that.  

“Sensitive there? Noted.”

The words shatter the unreality of the situation. With startling clarity, Prompto can picture how they must look: Ignis, glasses askew, panting into Prompto’s neck like propriety undone; Prompto, all mussed hair and glazed eyes, blush like a beacon against his pale skin. The situation feels more than just good, more than fucking amazing even. It feels _right_ and if he wasn’t already seated, the force of the revelation probably would’ve floored him.

But this really isn’t about Prompto so he tucks the thought away to be dealt with at a later date (read: never). Somehow, he wrests Ignis’ glasses away instead, dumping them on the discarded clothing before skimming the scar tissue over the older man’s eye, fingers thrumming with barely concealed excitement. Experimentally, he flicks his tongue over the notch in Ignis’ bottom lip and the sound of Ignis’ breath hitching makes Prompto swell with pride.

“Sensitive there?” Prompto says with a smirk because that’s the kind of teasing retort Noct would dish out, bowing his head to lavish thorough attention on the spot. The loud gasp he’s rewarded with makes his dick twitch.

“Bedroom,” Ignis stutters the command, approximately two octaves higher than Prompto thought was possible.

Limbs laden with lust, Prompto achieves a minor miracle by finding his feet. He links their fingers and tows Ignis along, pausing only for Ignis to duck into the bathroom and re-emerge with a bottle of shampoo or body wash or something – the label’s indecipherable in the low light and besides, Prompto’s more focused on the impressive bulge behind Ignis’ trousers. Prompto makes an unintelligble sound kinda like, “Fffuu…” and snatches Ignis’ hand again, leading him with a new sense of urgency to the third bedroom, the one with the king size bed. Leave it to Prompto to outright trip and face plant on the bed, Ignis toppling down right after him because Prompto doesn’t relinquish his grip, but Prompto has no brain cells to spare on embarrassment because they’re kissing again, Ignis sealing reverence across Prompto’s cheekbones, and yeah, this is pretty damn sweet. Prompto swipes his tongue over Ignis', thinks about flavour compounds and the salt distilled in sweat, thinks about how incredible it is to be tasting Ignis at such a basic level. His eyes slip shut and he silently wills Ignis to love him until everything else feels insignificant, until the lengthening nights don't seem so frightening and the nightmares dwindle to nothing and the vacant spot where Noct used to sit inside his heart is filled with adoration. Right now, more than anything, he wants to forget. 

While Prompto's mind keeps spinning, Ignis murmurs something and rolls them over, hands pulling on Prompto’s pants, a simple testing of boundaries that paints a grin on Prompto’s lips.

How would Noct have done it? Even if he'd never exactly exuded confidence he'd always been Prompto's template, taking charge during their singular encounter, apprehension eclipsed by copious amounts of alcohol. Prompto figures it would've been different had Noct been with Ignis though. Ignis prefers to chronicle everything in crystalline detail. Noct would probably defer to the older male's ministrations.

Hypotheticals are great and all but right now? Ignis’ frazzled state has Prompto wondering precisely how much experience the guy even has. 

_You’re thinking **way** too hard about this._

Prompto closes his hands around where Ignis is teasing at his waistband and with a bit of floundering they undress him together, Prompto trying not to feel self-conscious about the way his dick curves to the left, just another item to add to his list of oddities. An involuntary shiver tracks down his spine, both from the night chill and the anticipation. _Can’t believe I’m actually gonna do this,_ he thinks because when it comes to Ignis, in most normal people’s musings, “retentive” is generally the word that follows “anal”. After kicking his underwear away, Prompto yoinks the makeshift lube, squirts a dollop onto his palm and thoroughly covers his fingers before reaching back to prepare himself, eyes sliding shut against the familiar stretch. He forces his breathing to level out, no small feat considering how he's quivering with need, and his fingers glide forward easily on each exhalation. Soon he's buried to the knuckles, finally able to say all those sad jack off sessions were good for something other than relieving tension. It's not nearly enough to stopper all the emotion tumbling inside his slender frame though.

He glances down again. Ignis looks elegant even like this, sweaty and aching, strands of damp hair tumbling over his forehead, and Prompto has to swallow the urge to say something dumb. He wishes Ignis could see him right now, see how hard Prompto is for him.

Tentatively, Ignis ventures, "What... What are you...?"

The question makes Prompto gulp because, _Gods, don't make me describe it!_ A bashful laugh trickles over his lips as he pulls out with a wet pop, wiping his fingers on the sheets (thank the Six he's always been a thorough bather, a habit born from years of waiting and hoping) before pouring out fresh lube. He finds Ignis' hands, begins slowly coating his fingers, stroking with a brazenness he didn't realise he possessed.

"Take a stab," he goads, and it's possibly the most cringe worthy pun in the world but if the mingled embarrassment and arousal that flickers across Ignis' face is anything to go by, Ignis certainly doesn't mind. He twists his head to the side, a deeper shade of pink infusing his already rosy cheeks and the knowledge that his words can undo the most put-together man on Eos sends Prompto's heart racing.

 _Am I hallucinating this?_ He wriggles further up, feels the firm muscles beneath him. _Nope, this is the real life._ He takes a deep breath. _Seriously, dude, just do it._ And he sinks onto Ignis' fingers. 

Ignis goes, _"Oh,"_ and Prompto just has time to see the guy's cock throb behind his pants before he tips his head back, revelling in the sensation of somebody else inside him, somebody with considerably longer fingers than his own. Prompto's back arches as Ignis curls inside him, working the muscles looser. A pleased gasp swan dives out of the blonde's mouth and abruptly, Ignis sits up to capture the sound, dragging Prompto closer until they're flush against each other, Prompto’s bare erection scraping Ignis’ clothed one where a noticeable wetness is pooling. _Shit, he's so turned on. RIP, me._ Prompto grabs at the older man's hipbone with bruising force. Almost imperceptibly, Ignis jerks up and the delicious friction flings Prompto to the heights of ecstasy. 

From this angle, Ignis can reach deeper than Prompto's ever been able to touch himself, brushing that hypersensitive bundle of nerves again and again and again, and the blonde kinda whimpers helplessly, chewed off nails raking the graceful curve of Ignis' back.  _Fuck._ Prompto buries his nose in the crook of the older man’s shoulder, inhaling the edible aromas of lime and lemongrass this time along with the musky scent that’s purely Ignis, something indefinable Prompto’s come to associate with home. He has no idea if Ignis knows what he's doing. He probably does. He's the dictionary definition of thorough. Obscene images start parading across Prompto's vision as he considers all the "research" Ignis might've done on the topic of sexual encounters and he feels his balls start tightening. _Fuck._ This is way more than he can handle. 

"Gods, Iggy, stop, I'm gunna—!" Fuck, this is embarrassing.

Ignis reluctantly pulls away, releasing the reddened nipple he’d been licking too, and the loss wrings a whine from the back of Prompto’s throat. Instead, he turns Prompto’s wrist over and places an apologetic kiss over the barcode. The gesture does wonders for settling the blonde, who takes a shaky breath and laughs self-deprecatingly. “Sorry.”

“No need for apologies,” Ignis responds, voice husky. A hesitancy sweeps over his expression and his thumb starts sketching gentle circles over the tattoo. “Do you… That is, are you certain this is what you want?” he asks, and his kind concern makes Prompto’s heart positively burst with tenderness.

_Am I? Is it?_

Prompto’s not sure but Ignis is too gentlemanly to proceed without an answer. He bites his lip, wondering, rehashing everything that’s led to this moment. There’s the prolonged torture at a madman’s hands. There’s the guy who deserted him and the girl who bled out in front of him. There’s the best friend who he still loves with every single atom in his broken little body, loves with a force that defies Astrals and Accursed and anything in between, from here to the very edges of eternity.

And there’s Ignis.

The answer’s simple, even if nothing else is.

“Yeah,” he breathes.

With fluttering hands, Prompto slowly undoes Ignis’ belt, breath pitter-pattering as the older man divests himself of his last articles of clothing and finally, finally they’re bared before one another. Prompto didn’t think he could flush any harder but when he sees Ignis’ erection, which looks solid enough to put a dint in an iron giant, he feels like his cheeks might just burst into flames. Quickly, he pushes the older man back, gulping against the rising trepidation before querying, “D’you mind if I…? Um… Can we…?”

“Please.”

The yearning laced through that single syllable makes Prompto’s dick surge. _Don’t have to tell me twice,_ he thinks and a moment later he’s wrapping lube-slick fingers around Ignis’ cock, delighting in the way it dips when he squeezes and pulls. A couple of brief strokes has Ignis arching off the bed, whatever modicum of control he’s maintained completely shattered to the tune of, “Gods yes, please, ugh, _gods_ ,” and that’s it, Prompto’s so done that if you stuck a fork in him the prongs would snap off. He needs Ignis like yesterday, shit, like last year. If they don’t do something soon he’s gonna blow his load before they even get to fucking.

He settles higher on Ignis’ hips, the entire world dwindling around them. Ignis’ hands cup his thighs, keeping him on course, and it’s for Ignis’ benefit that Prompto lowers himself in torturously slow increments until Ignis is balls deep inside him.

 _Oh gods oh gods oh gods._ Like a short-circuiting computer, Prompto’s brain apparently only possesses the capacity to think in looping phrases.

From the strain on his face, Ignis isn’t doing much better. “Are you okay?” he manages, words sticking in his throat.

Prompto nods jerkily.

Voice clipped and concerned, “…Prompto?”

“Shit. Ugh, yeah.”

Hands splayed on Ignis’ chest to anchor himself, he slowly begins to grind down, breathing open-mouthed as the blunt head of Ignis’ cock rubs his prostate and sends electricity coursing through his veins, each movement wrenching another gasp from the quaking man beneath him. The sensation of Ignis’ hand closing over his dick sends Prompto completely spinning and Ignis jerks him with the same precision he dedicates to all his tasks. Prompto can’t restrain his moan this time, buzzed and boneless like one of those mushy desserts Noct despised.

“You can say his name,” Prompto pants.

“You can too,” Ignis returns, voice scraping over the consonants.

But as Ignis begins to thrust up, Noct’s name is the farthest thing from Prompto’s mind. Much more of this and Prompto’s gonna pop so he flips them over again, drowning in some primal desire to feel helpless, wordlessly urging Ignis on by hooking his legs around the guy’s taut waist. Ignis complies, driving into the blonde over and over and over, a garbled litany of praise cascading from his lips that makes Prompto’s toes curl, bed squeaking obscenely beneath them. A familiar pressure begins building in Prompto’s abdomen and then Ignis reaches between them, finds Prompto’s weeping cock, strokes. Prompto claims another searing kiss, this one charged and full of longing, and with a lingering groan that might’ve been a name Ignis slams into him once, twice, three times. Warmth spreads inside Prompto’s ass, Ignis’ cock pulsating against his worn walls, and not a moment later Prompto’s spilling thick ropes over both their bodies, a wordless cry ribboning out from the depths of his chest.

Their ragged exhalations sound stark in the bedroom. Carefully, Ignis withdraws and rolls onto his back. Prompto’s mind is marvellously blank, all the confusion fucked out of him, hands and legs splayed like a particularly sweaty stranded starfish. Prompto’s not sure what he was expecting, breathy sigh drifting up and out. Awkwardness, perhaps. Clean up, definitely. But what he certainly didn’t anticipate was Ignis reaching over and threading their fingers together, thumb tracing tiny designs on the back of Prompto’s hand. The sheer tenderness of the gesture utterly decimates him.

 _How’d I get so lucky?_ he wonders, too exhausted to do much else. His gaze gently brushes Ignis, who looks so peaceful now that the worry lines are smoothed away, chest steadily rising and falling. _Please don’t let it be weird in the morning,_ he thinks, scooting a little closer because like hell he’s gonna pass up the opportunity for a snuggle sesh.

And for the first time in a long time, Prompto sleeps soundly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never written a sex scene so hopefully... it was okay? orz


	4. Lux Nova

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ignis spends all night beating himself up and Prompto snaps him out of it. Fluff abounds.

Of course, it’s weird.

Prompto’s eyelids flutter open. Fuzzy headed, there’s a moment of complete disconnect as he wonders why he can hear the crash of waves through the double glazed windows of Noct’s apartment. Then he rolls over and the telltale twang at the base of his spine brings everything roaring back.

 _Oh._ Did that really happen? Prompto probes downstairs and yep, yeah, it really did. He blushes hard, the recollections playing out with pornographic clarity, making his sticky dick start perking up. When he actually wakes up properly and notices the glaring absence on the other side of the bed though, all the lust sputters away.

Dawn. Dawn meant Ignis was down by the ocean. Prompto stretches before tossing back the tangled covers and pulling on his underwear, which had wound up draped over the lampshade, an absurdity that would’ve rendered him a giggling mess under normal circumstances. As it is, he’s way too worried to so much as smile.

 _If he didn’t take the cane, I swear…_ But Prompto knows he wouldn’t have so he gets dressed quickly and hastens to the door, tripping because he hadn’t bothered to tie his shoelaces. He gets as far as the kitchen. The soft clinking from within makes him peek inside.

“Good morning,” a neatly dressed Ignis greets, damp hair brushed back, frypan clasped in his hand as he expertly flips the—

“Pancakes!” Prompto cheers, disappointment at not finding Ignis naked behind a kiss the cook apron instantly evaporating as his gaze falls on the table, which is piled with syrupy waffles and fanned out fruit arrangements and zucchini corn fritters and little pastries topped with tempered chocolate fronds. There’s a generous pile of ulwaat berries too, which most definitely do not grow in the veggie patch. The thought of Ignis scavenging them in the middle of the night leaves Prompto oscillating between despair and amusement. Only Ignis would risk getting split open by a red giant in the name of a balanced breakfast.

There’s more too, stuff Prompto’s never seen before, stuff he never even knew existed. Maybe Ignis invented it on his own? Prompto flops onto the nearest chair, slightly giddy because Ignis is here, actually here, and he’s whipped up the most incredible banquet Prompto’s ever feasted his eyes on. Seriously, this could feed the Crownsguard for like a year.

“And some lemon curd as accompaniment,” Ignis informs him, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he slides over a jar. Next, a plate stacked with perfectly fluffy goodness is pushed in front of the drooling blonde along with a steaming mug of coffee, the bitter aroma mingling with the sweetness of the strawberry-basil tart Prompto pops into his mouth. It's just as delicious as Prompto remembers - maybe even better than the first one Ignis baked him a lifetime ago - and Prompto feels about ready to burst with joy. 

“You sure you’re actually human? How long were you slaving over the stove?”

Ignis shrugs, taking a seat across from Prompto, who wastes no time getting stuck in, scooping fresh berries onto his pancakes and sighing in content when he takes his first bite. The pancakes are incredible but he doesn’t want any of Ignis’ hard work to go to waste so he tries a bit of absolutely everything, unable to decide on a favourite dish because it’s all so damn delicious. Prompto jabbers on and on about how brilliant it all tastes. Ignis’ mouth just quirks a little at the praise.

Waitaminute. Here Prompto is, stuffing his face full of hash browns, and Ignis has barely poked his muesli. Prompto goes quiet, excitement tapering off. All this extravagant food…

“Iggy…” The older man hums in acknowledgement as he raises the mug to his mouth. Prompto narrows his eyes. “Did you just dish me up Pancakes of Regret?”

Ignis chokes on his coffee.

 _That’s a yes,_ Prompto mentally bemoans. He pinches the tattoo on his wrist to ground his nerves, heart grinding to a halt behind his ribcage. Of course Ignis is having second thoughts. If their roles were reversed, Prompto’d be having reservations too.

Ignis stops hacking and primly dabs his lips with his napkin before directing an affronted look across the table. “No,” he denies, a little stiffly, “Whatever gave you that impression?”

“Oh, I dunno, maybe the fact that you’ve been less talkative than Gladio after he’s been on a bender. Also your face is doing the thing.”

“Excuse me?” Incredulity hangs off each syllable.

“You know, the thing. The eyebrows and the sniffy nose and— Ugh, you know what, forget it.” He resists the urge to toss his cutlery down in a fit of childish anger and storm out of the room.

Ignis makes an exasperated sound. Curtly, he begins clearing the table, stacking the dirty dishes on the sink. Even in this, he’s careful not to cause a scene. The restraint drives Prompto crazy and he picks at the fraying tablecloth as Ignis begins cleaning, chewing the inside of his cheek while he obsesses over the past 24 hours. Tension simmers in the air. _Don’t be a baby,_ he tells himself. _You knew he wasn’t really interested._ It should be a non-issue really, so Prompto slaps on a brave face and gulps down his cold coffee, prepped to help dry, but the timing’s all wrong because Ignis shuts off the water to say, “I’m going for a walk. If you need me, I’ll be in the usual spot.”

For an indeterminate amount of time, Prompto’s left staring at the remains of his coffee. The clock ticks loudly on the wall. Frustration coils in his belly. Why can’t he just get something right for once? Was it always gonna be like this, Prompto continually screwing up every good thing in his pathetic, miserable, pitiable existence? _Maybe if I just let him have his mopey moment, everything’ll go back to normal,_ he thinks. Maybe they could move on like this never happened, as if what Prompto's feeling for Ignis is any less real than how he feels about Noct, as if Prompto was just being a good little substitute prince when he stepped into that room and kissed Ignis like both their lives depended on it. Prompto’s plenty practised at pretending he’s something he’s not.

_…No._

He stands so abruptly the chair falls over. It wasn’t fair. Why should Prompto’s feelings always play second fiddle to everybody else’s? Even if Ignis doesn't feel the same way, Prompto owes himself the truth. He darts outside, raising a hand to shield from the glare of the new sun. Ignis is some ways away, almost at the steps now. The ground’s prickly beneath his feet but he doesn’t care. Prompto takes off running.

He runs faster than his legs have ever taken him. Within a few strides, his feet are stinging and his lungs are burning, the almost-faded poison in his veins weighting every movement, but he keeps on going, desperation lending him strength. All the ass crack of morning jogs and late night training sessions and fireside banter seems to have boiled down to this moment, this snapshot in time, and he feels everything slowing around him as he runs towards the sun, Ignis stretching further and further away with each aching step.

But then he’s there, and suddenly he doesn’t know how to proceed. Ignis is turning, poised to defend himself. Prompto, chest heaving, offers a very articulate, “Hey,” and Ignis falls out of his battle stance. When Prompto touches his arms though he has to wince at how Ignis tenses, mouth working wordlessly in what has to be a first for the advisor.

 _This’s unchartered territory for him too,_ Prompto realises. The knowledge somehow quietens the swirling noise inside his head, helps keep his tone casual when he comments, “Running away’s not usually your style.”

Ignis grasps Prompto’s elbows and tries to nudge him away but Prompto’s stubborn, and Ignis is forced to hang on unless he wants to make it obvious he’s retreating. With a carefully neutral expression as his armour, the words come smoothly now, “I doubt I could run even if circumstances demanded it. All that rich food is sitting quite heavily. I’d hoped fresh air and some light activity would aid in digestion.”

Prompto snorts. “Yeah, right. You didn’t even finish your coffee. Maybe you can lie to everybody else but you can’t lie to me, Ignis.”

The use of his proper name makes Ignis’ fingers curl around Prompto’s arms on reflex. Prompto allows himself to feel satisfied. Finding chinks in armour is what he does best, after all.

“You wish to discuss it then?” Ignis says, a subdued resignation in his tone. “Very well. I appreciate what you did but I understand you were acting from a place of compassion as opposed to…” he trails off and Prompto doesn’t miss the way a tendon jumps in his jaw. “You were so kind, moreso than I deserved, and I repaid you by taking advantage. I must apologise for causing you copious undue stress.”

Prompto’s thunderstruck. Was _that_ what the most brilliant strategist had deduced, that Prompto didn’t give two shakes of a chocobo’s tail feather about him? How was it possible that Ignis didn’t know how much Prompto craved his affection, needed him in a visceral way like the certainty of dawn? When Prompto speaks next, it takes every ounce of confidence that he’s squirrelled away over the years, a self-belief built by the steady determination to better himself, stoked by the unwavering love of his friends, hammered into something unbreakable between the cold walls of Zegnautus and nurtured by the man he’s holding now.

“Hate to break it to you, buddy, but you couldn’t be wronger. More wrong. Crap.” Ignis tilts his head like he does when he’s listening to something really carefully. Prompto takes the deepest breath of his life and says, “First Noct, now you. Guess I’ve got a thing for emotional closet cases.”

Ignis’ mouth goes slack. “…What do you mean?” he eventually manages.

“I mean that you didn’t push me into anything I didn’t want to do. And it wasn’t like some pity lay or anything.” Ignis flinches at the term; Prompto squeezes his arms in apology. _Like a band-aid,_ Prompto thinks and he blurts it out: “What I mean, you gorgeous goober, is that I _like_ like you. Now can you please put this dweeb out of his misery and tell me one way or anoth—”

His plea’s cut short as Ignis seals their mouths together.

Prompto gives a muffled squeak. Sweetly, Ignis’ hands cup the blonde’s face, lips patient and pliable in the face of Prompto’s obvious disbelief, and once he’s sure he’s not dreaming, he falls into the kiss. Prompto’s heart’s surging, ready to skyrocket straight out of his fucking chest, happiness singing in his bloodstream, thoughts a heady swirl because, _He likes me, he fucking likes me! I wasn’t sure considering but there’s no way he’d be snogging me right now if he didn’t, right? Right. I need to stop second guessing myself, embrace my inner stud-ness and—_ _Sweet Six, was that his **tongue?**_

“I rather _like_ like you too,” Ignis smiles against Prompto’s lips.

_Holy shit._

Ignis’ tongue pries him open and the only thing stopping Prompto’s brain from overloading is the knowledge that he’s gotta drag them inside before they break any laws.

* * *

It’s funny, the things he remembers:

The creak of leather as he slides into the driver’s seat, steering wheel sun-warmed through his gloved hands, and the sound of soft snoring two seconds later.

The smell of citrus beneath fevered sweating as he adjusts the cold compress, making a mental note to check whatever new brand of shampoo is in the bathroom so he can alter his purchases accordingly.

The bittersweet pop of ulwaat berries and, _Not quite. Not quite. Not quite,_ a predictable mantra that he suspects is purely for show because surely he perfected this pastry long ago.

If Noct ever guessed – and who knows, he may have; occasionally, he had flashes of insightful brilliance that could truly take a man unawares – he never made a big deal out of it. It was enough for him to have his friends, his brothers in all the ways that counted. Perhaps it was that very closeness that paradoxically inhibited him from dropping his guard entirely because people age and people wear out and people die, and gods knew Noct didn’t deal well with loss. Maybe hating him would be easier, the boy king who was the centre of Ignis’ universe, first by default and later by design, but Ignis can’t find it in his heart to blame Noct for his reticence. Besides, Ignis knows something of building walls too.

Does Ignis regret staying silent? No. Regret would cheapen the deep understanding he and Noct nurtured over the long years. But does he sometimes consider the way it could have been? Naturally. He is only human, after all. And he misses Noct. He misses Noct in a way that goes beyond feeling. He misses Noct in a way that is _being,_ like he doesn’t know how to exist without that sleep-hazy gaze greeting him every morning, like the challenges that had peppered their relationship were nothing more than waypoints on a roadmap. At the end of it all, Noct is still Ignis’ north star.

That's not all he remembers though.

Now, nestled safely beside the spot in his heart where Ignis thought only Noct would fit, there's a sunny smile in a freckled face, the glint of vivid violet beneath the dimmed lights of the Leville, the scent of gunpowder and engine oil-stained sleeves after Prompto became utterly engrossed in whatever machinery he was tinkering with. There's the enthusiasm with which Prompto wolfs down green curry while avoiding spilling a single drop like he's keenly aware of how precious food is. There's the way Prompto is always, always ready: to crack a silly joke or put his life on the line or break his back bending over for the people he cares about. Prompto would bleed himself dry if he thought it would help his friends. 

And there's the way Prompto loves him. 

Before, Ignis had never had time for romance. The closest he got was the occasional encounter with some barely-acquaintance from the coffee shop or gym or wherever to quell Gladio’s concern (“Less working yourself to the bone, more getting boned.”) Even if his feelings for Noct never came into play, it was hopeless to search for a life partner who would understand him let alone who would understand that with Ignis, there would always be a third person in the room. In this regard, he is fortunate to have Prompto, who is empathetic and wonderful and understands the responsibility of somebody life-bound to the Crown, content just to be in Ignis’ little sphere for however long they have. Ignis is always planning; Prompto lives in the now, each moment racing along his arteries like the rev of the Regalia.

And Prompto’s like to Noct in many ways, yes, but he has his own dreams and quirks and fears. At his worst, Noct was lazy, flippant, selfish – all by-products of a traumatic childhood, the countless people who tried to ingratiate themselves with him (more often than not for nefarious reasons) and a tendency to bury his feelings. All topped off with the burden of the Lucii hanging over his head, of course, which by itself would be enough to turn anybody reticent. By contrast, Prompto is so heart-on-your-sleeve that even a blind man could see through him. It makes for a pleasant change after a lifetime of political feints and duplicity, and Ignis can't help wondering what all those backbiters at the Citadel would make of the cold advisor and the plucky commoner, both outsiders in their own way. They would probably drop dead of shock. Ignis would immensely enjoy attending their funerals. 

He feels Prompto tracing random curlicues on his chest interspersed with an I, an L, a U. Ignis smiles. Clear as day, he can picture the grinning, freckly face. Prompto is Prompto: energetic, sincere, selfless to a fault. Without Ignis noticing, Prompto gently scooped out a corner of Ignis' tired heart and poured in sunshine, illuminating Ignis' monochrome world. He knows now that not loving Prompto was never an option, something most normal people likely discerned within moments of meeting the upbeat blonde. Ignis has always been a swift learner but when it comes to matters of the heart, he supposes he’s something of a slow study.

“Hey, Ignis, can I ask you something?”

Ignis rolls over and props his head on his hand, well aware his hair’s falling over his forehead again. He modulates his voice to a languid drawl when he answers, “Yes, darling?” partially because he never tires of hearing that quick intake of breath that tells how flustered Prompto gets. It still surprises him. Enough people had insisted Ignis was beautiful but he’d never paid much attention, what with his ridiculous work schedule underscored by the juvenile taunts about the too-skinny nerd fresh in his mind. Besides, that was long before…

Well. Prompto’s nothing if not honest so Ignis has no choice but to believe his words of adoration. Perhaps a little cruelly, Ignis lets his lips part, and imagining the way Prompto’s now-blue, now-purple eyes are bugging brings him ridiculous amounts of joy.

“Don’t change the subject,” Prompto whines.

“I didn’t,” Ignis says, all velveteen amusement.

Prompto bats at his arm. They rough-house for a token moment before degenerating into another slow, lazy kiss. “Seriously though,” Prompto says breathlessly. Sensing the gravity of the situation, Ignis leans back, giving Prompto space to collect his scattered thoughts. “I need to ask,” Prompto begins but he seems unable to continue.

Ignis links their hands. “In your own time,” he says because Prompto responds best to gentle encouragement.

“Right. Yeah.” The rustle of a hand pushing through hair. “So I’ve been wondering. About the future and… things. Us.” Prompto inhales deeply, then, “What happens when Noct comes back?”

Now _this_ is unexpected. Ignis has been wanting to broach the subject for some time now but he always feared he was just a placeholder in Prompto’s life so cowardice kept him quiet. After all, Prompto is ridiculously endearing. He could have anybody he wanted.

Maybe Ignis is reading too much into Prompto’s words though. He responds, “We help him bring back the Light, of course.”

Prompto goes still beside him, a clear indication that the practical answer wasn't what he was after. “Ignis,” he says, and Prompto's lips around the syllables are an entreaty. Ignis knows he shouldn’t deny it.

He tries to picture what it would be like for Noctis to stagger back into their lives. How much would a decade change him? Two decades? He would appear more stately, Ignis supposes, with some of his father’s austere manner when discussing matters of war. A beard, perhaps. His royal raiment would no longer sag across the shoulders. When he spoke, it would be with the cool confidence of a true leader.

He’s been silent too long, he knows. Prompto interrupts his thoughts. “Remember how I said that you should be free to choose? Well, I still feel the same. If this is just gonna end,” the words are turning tight now and Ignis’ chest hurts, “then I’ll take whatever I can get while I can get it, but I’d just like to know. So I can prepare to have my heart shattered into a million tiny pieces and all.”

What is he saying? Does he honestly think he's just a proxy, the standby in some three act play? Another man may have taken offence but Ignis knows the concern comes from Prompto's deep-rooted fear that he's not good enough. He wishes there was some way to erase all the blonde's self-doubt.He reaches up to touch Prompto’s face and his breath catches when he brushes the evidence of Prompto’s sorrow.

“I mean, that’s the smart thing to say, right? But we both know I’m not the smartest guy, so what I really mean is…” His grip on Ignis’ hand tightens. “Promise you won’t just love me until the sun comes up.”

It’s like a thundaga flask to the chest, kick-starting Ignis’ heart. He brushes the tears away, pulling the shaking blonde into his arms as he places Prompto’s hand over his pounding heart, willing him to understand how impossible that would be. It’s eternally night for Ignis. Prompto’s the one who found him in the dark.

The entire world contained in his hands, Ignis says, “I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @Asidian: Thank you so much for the awesome prompt! I never knew the depth of my Promnis feels until I started exploring this. (It did occur to me that you were probably after a non-canon scenario but my brain went here and by the time I realised I was kinda already committed. Also I freaked out when I saw you were my prompter because I super respect your work/characterisations/plots/everything ahahaha.) Anywho, I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> @ everyone else: Thanks for reading, kudos-ing, commenting! You guys give me life. <3 Also if you've never read Asidian's fics WHY ARE YOU HERE GO DO IT NOW.


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